The post below is written by Karma Palden, a freelance writer and it was published in the K2. I knew Karma since college. I have been very much amused with his hair since then. And this article has all explanations. Read it below:
It was a winter. I was travelling to Phuentsholing in a
bus. While stopping over at Gedu for a break, an elderly man, who was
hard of hearing, asked me with such sincerity in his tone if I could tell him
where I bought my wig.
“I’m planning to get
one,” he said.
This wasn’t my first encounter of this
kind. People usually presume it’s a wig I am wearing, and I can’t blame
them either. My hair is big, with tight curls, resembling an Afro.
It’s a mass shaped like a halo, a dark one, around my head.
“It’s not a wig; it’s real hair,” I said.
But he didn’t hear, I suppose, for he kept
asking how much it cost and other things. So when the bus started I was
glad.
My hair has always been curly. But it
was in college I started experimenting. It sat so well with ‘back to
basics’ and ‘nature culture’ I was so fond of, that I started keeping it.
And often people took it for a wig.
Whenever I said it was real, they’d touch it and sometimes yank in disbelief.
I do steal a lot of amusing and disapproving
stares from toddlers to elderly people, which I dually return with a fitting
glance. But it can be nauseating at times when you are low and down in
spirits. Some youngsters think it is cool, while some break into sudden
laughter.
On occasion, some people take me for a wayward
person and justifiably, since our society has their granted say on outlandish
ways and behaviour.
There are even instances when people keep
stakes and of course I have won many bets. There are others, who inquire
the technique to get this big unscrupulous hair. Well, I have no answer
to that, since it is natural and a gene(uine) case with me.
In dark alleys, I’ve often spooked others, not
intentionally. I just happened to be passing by.
My friends usually have chunks of such jokes
to heap on me.
It’s been seven years now, and it has become
part of who I am. To me, it means no style statement or whatsoever; it is
just that I am comfortable and confident. It helps in being me; to be
precise, it could be perfectly surmised in the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson,
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else
is the greatest accomplishment.”
I sat by the window of a bus at the Phuentsholing Bus
Station. I stared out the window the rain falling on the ground with a light
pitter-patter sound. The sound of rain, oh! I adored rain and always had,
mostly for their sound. And I sat there, in my own imagination, watching and
hearing it, reverent. A woman, presumably in her 50s, arrived with eight sacks of
litchi. She looked humble, apparently illiterate. This woman started loading her
litchi in a bus all by herself, under the rain. Let me help her, I thought. Subsequently,
I dashed out and helped her in dragging and pushing the sack after sack of
litchi on the bus top. It took almost a dozen of minutes. And I sweated, the
downpour soaked me too. I sprinted back to the bus, in my seat. The droplets of
rain kept splattering against the glass. Bus passengers arrived one after another,
and once again I sat watching the rain pouring down, hearing its sound. But
this time, also wondering about my journey. You know all this…summer means not
just hot weather and rain, but also erosion, flashfloods, roadblocks and road
accidents. And I was praying, indeed earnestly, let there be no road blocks. In a while the driver arrived. He prayed, rather ritualistically,
and then started the engine. We had to halt several times and wait for hours at
box-cutting (check spelling yourself, he-he) and road clearing areas. However,
non-stop Bhutanese rigsar songs made this traveling not boring. Ugyen Pandey’s
songs were much played. They were about our Kings, country, friendship, love
and the melancholy mysteries of life. I loved and lived by many of his songs. I
bought his albums. I know the lyrics. The sun had already disappeared when we reached Thimphu. At
the Lungtenzampa Bus Station crowd, I started looking for a cab after
collecting my luggage. “Kota! Kota!” I heard a voice of woman. I stared back.
There, quite unexpectedly, was the woman whom I helped loading her litchi. She
ran towards me and took out a bunch of litchi for me. I was not sure how to
react. I denied. Once. Twice. Thrice. But she, her smile beautiful, insisted on
to take it. She pushed that litchi in my bag and left. A volume of happiness erupted in me, so automatically. It
made my heart melt with love and admiration for her gorgeous heart. She was a
peasant, uneducated and apparently without ambition. But I felt sheer smallness
of my life in front of her. Even little thing like a bunch of litchi can bring
you a joy so vast. And she taught me this. I burst in tears. I didn’t know precisely
why-perhaps my happiness was expressed in the form of tears. I caught a cab and left for home so, so grateful for this
caring and thoughtful woman. I left wishing her about the best that life has to
offer her.
We
set off walking uphill, on our way to renovate a vandalized chorten on the way
to Phajodhing. It was mid-morning, a month ago. Sunny day. Bright. We, 12 of Go Youth Go members, carried a load each
of lime, paint, sacks, spade, knife, packed lunch and some drinks.
After
almost an hour-in fact, sweated-we reached the spot. Wow, we were into the
interior of the forest, all surrounded by beautiful green trees. The air, so
clean and cool and pure. I was delighted beyond words. In some ways, this was a
great relief for me. Away from the intense, cramped and noisy Thimphu City. But,
eh, in one corner of the hill, sat the chorten abandoned and despised, in
sullen silence. It looked bruised, dispirited, looted. Oh, the mere sight of it
pained me, provoked such an ache of my heart.
Immediately,
we deployed ourselves in rebuilding the chorten. With real gusto though. Responsibilities
were divided among us. I received a bucket to fetch water from the stream about
a hundred yards downhill. A couple of others got a sack each and spade to ferry
clay. Others went onto collect pine needle and made a fire to burn incense and
pine needle as was the ritual. Strong boys from the group gathered stones. Two
boys, who had good knowledge about architecture, put back the treasures and
refilled damaged areas. And of course, a few brought their great humours.
In
no time at all, the required materials were gathered. Water. Clay. Pine needle.
Stones. It was, in fact, all about teamwork and teambuilding among the group
members. Then, we started rebuilding the chorten, so uninterruptedly, so
determinedly.
After
a while, there’s torrential rain beating down on us, and it’s ferocious. The rain water mixed with girls’ black
mascara, eyeliner and foundation. Boys’ gell streaming down, all milky white. Our
clothes wet, our hands and legs muddied. But
no one complained about the downpour. We kept on working, feeling much
stronger, against the onslaughts of the pouring rain and cold. We admired work
of art, architecture and the efforts our ancestors had invested building this
chorten. In
the lunch, we shared our packed lunches. Three had brought rice. A few others, emadatsi. One brought ezey. Others had brought vegetables
curries. Even it’s teamwork in having lunch and more importantly, all about
sharing.
The
lunch warm in our bellies, we resumed our work. And this time, recharged with a
commendable spirit and determination. As we worked, we too conversed, laughed, played,
tussled and tangled. In fact, sweating profusely.
But
the clouds up in the sky never cleared. The downpour never stopped and soaking
us. And, oddly, wonderfully, it opened my eyes to the radiance of a deep sense
of grace and glow to my heart. Like this rain water, like this sweats and this
mud which had dissolved every particle of worldly dust from our body, the
effect of laboring rebuilding of the chorten cleansed our tainted souls. Anger,
desolation, apathy, weariness and despair-all flushed down. And only the positive
feelings had been illuminated in our heart. And a growing belief in a spiritual
dimension, developed compassion and heightened sense of love. And
the dispirited, bruised, looted chorten resurrected in its glory. Its treasures
restored, its grace returned. Once again, it stood incomparably beautiful,
shining in bliss, plentitude. And illuminating in a halo of lights of beauty,
love, spiritualism, compassion and protection. This is one plain empirical
truth, I had discovered. The chorten like a mirror reflected our own image,
inner sanctum of our temple.
The
afternoon was nearing its end when we complete rebuilding the chorten. The rain
stopped. Ah, miraculously, the setting sun stood feverishly beautiful in the
west as we packed our things and headed our way home downhill-muddy and
slippery. Flurries of birds were swirling around us twittering and chirping as
if they were thanking us. Fresh wild flowers budded full, supposedly, in enormous gratitude and a
sense of homage for us. Rustling leaves waved us farewell.
And
downhill, we clambered, with a smile of satisfaction and love. Our heart
exalted. Because not only did we resurrect one chorten, but our own negative
feelings cleansed and heroically restored with compassion, love, happiness. Note: Go
Youth Go (GyG) is a membership-based community group of highly motivated young
people which is committed to bring positive social change in Bhutan. It has over 160 active members. GyG is on Facebook: www.facebook.com/GoYouthGo
Do you love reading and everything about the book world? Do
you want to spread the love of reading and literature to your children?
Let me introduce you to one of my best-loved programmes that
the Department of Youth and Sports (DYS) offers. Book Time, a reading session, engages young children at the DYS
library to teach them the true power of the literary world. The session also
helps young children recognize the power of books, love and value them.
I’ve been working with children of Book Time for the past two weeks. And honestly, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed
every minute of it, all along the way. During the session, I came across a sweet little girl. Often
she stood, alone, holed in a corner reading a book-presumably, delving on the
pleasure of the words, story of the book. She was uncommonly alert,
communicative once you got to know her. And ah, she enjoyed all sorts of
literature.
In one session, I was reading out story from a book about a
fairy who granted wishes. When I asked what her wish would, this little girl
replied, “I want to write a book someday.” How sweet! I told her that she should. But I
wonder if I conveyed how strongly I really would like to.
After the session, I left thinking about how seriously she
would take this wish of her. But it gave me such pleasant joy to have known
about her passion about writing a book. At very young age. And who knows…in the
future or very soon, you and I would be grasping a beautiful book written by
this little girl.
A group of six children from Chukha dzongkhag are leaving for Japan tomorrow morning. They will be attending the 15-day long youth exchange programme in Koga, southern Japan. Two officials will be escorting them. The programme is to provide young people exposure and broaden understanding of the global perspective. It is also intended to exchange culture.
Peldan Dorji, 10, a student of Wangchuk MSS told me that he doesn't know what he is going to do in Japan. "I am blank. But I am very excited to go there," he said.
Another participant, 12-year old Kuendrup Yangchen, a student of Phuentsholing LSS, said, "I have never seen aeroplane in my life, but I am excited that tomorrow I will be experiencing my life's first flight. I am very, very happy."
Pic: Their last lunch before they leave for Japan
The programme is organized by the Department of Youth and Sports, MoE with financial support from the Japan government.
Facebooking is not always “waste of
time” or misleading. I will show you how. About a month ago, I was chatting
with my friend, Gyembo Koottaadogck Namgyal in
Pemagatshel and I came to know some significant aspects of life, the real
paradox of GNH society and about happiness.
Gyembo wrote:
“Can we afford to ignore these
people? Don't they live in a GNH country as well? We boast of having one of the
highest GDP per capita in the region and have people living on six digit pay
checks while people in the far flung corners live in...conditions like in the
picture. As the citizen of the country, both of those who live on the extreme
ends have equal rights to the country's wealth but where is the equity and
where is the effort to bridge this disparity? I would only say we are seriously
pursuing happiness only when we see some of the collective wealth of the nation
trickle down to the most needy ones.”
We
had this chat during the time when our Lyonchen was proclaiming about GNH in
New York. I felt, during that time, that our country
should think of making such folks happy than having scholarly discourses around
the world. The GNH needs not to be asserted or proclaimed across the outside world, it
should be practised in Bhutan, realistically and let the world hear, come and see how we
do it here.
Again Gyembo asserted:
“An undeniable reminder of what path
awaits us all down the line, rich and poor, powerful and meek, beautiful and
ugly and, sophisticated and rustic. All must tread that same path.”
He added:
“Even with all the wealth in the world
what do we really achieve-nothing, except that by the time we reach that stage,
it is time to bid adieu to everything. And that is the ultimate real truth.”
He was, generally, emphasizing that
people always look forward to making their dreams come true. And they struggle (with
so much of dedication and desire) for accumulation of wealth, property, sex, fame,
money and success. Amidst all this, they forget about the truth of life. At the
end, we achieve nothing but this old age. Inevitable though. This is what we
achieve after so much of struggles in life-the old worn out bended body.
And Gyembo composed an insightful lyrics for this man he saw on a highway. Read below:
On
this lonesome highway... For umpteenth time, I did travel, A special man I did see always, Clearing drain and sweeping tarmac, So that you and I can drive free of dust!!! Salute to you, special man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The house above? Oh, it’s my country house, tucked in a beautiful plain
in Chuzargang village, Gelephu. For you or any other person, this house is like
any other rural house. But to me, it’s so special; it’s engraved in my heart,
mind. Because I had spent almost entire life of my childhood there. Like its
oldness, uniqueness and its persistent grace, many of my jolly memories of
being a kid are tied up in this place.
A couple of weeks before, I was there. I went around the house and
looked so uninterruptedly, so obsessively at everything, even at the smallest
things. Images of as a childhood flooded into my mind. Instantaneously. After a
very long time, I was home again, staying in my own house, on the soil of my
own.
I rested on the wooden bench, outside the courtyard of my house. Lying
down on this same bench, some 20 years back, I used to dream of things I can’t
remember. Teacher. Engineer. Journalist. Rich man. Superhero. Ah, even marrying
a beautiful girl, settling down. And guess what? I had madly loved my
neighbour’s beautiful daughter. Oh, my heart! I wanted to marry her. My first
love? Infatuation? I don’t know.
The plain, unkempt and shy little children I met here only
reminded the way I was before. Since very young, just 6, I started looking
after cows. My cloth rain-dampened, in summer, along with my big brothers and
sisters, I would be chasing after my cows, about 30 in number. And my stomach would
swell and become hard like a drum due to rain and after eating wild mango.
Sitting here, I remembered the way my granny and elder sisters
used to narrate the devil stories. After listening to the stories, so
frightened at night, I’d always squeeze in between my brothers in the bed. Even
I wouldn’t go to toilet outside. And often, I’d bed wet.
And I looked way down over the field, so plain, so soft, vast and shimmered
with green grass so fresh, so dazzling rich. I strolled down and sat there on
the terrace of field. At the field where I used to run, zigzagging in all directions,
along with my big brothers and sisters and dogs. And I used to stumble all along
the terraces, behind them. At times, crying; other times, joyously.
The grass and bush have continued to grow. The bush sheltered
birds, rabbits, bees, insects of any kind, butterflies. I was walking in the
field, witnessing, and caught up in my own thoughts. We’d sneak beneath the
bush, shooting at those birds, slingshot in my hands. Sometimes, we’d chase
those wild rabbits, dragonflies too.
And I marched towards the irrigational canals and rivers nearby where
we used to swim-frolicking, hungry, fighting the current, soaking up. I can’t
explain it but all this felt different-this walking, this witnessing and this
nostalgia. All this made me most zesty. You might think I jumped at that
point. I did! Ah, because all the old instincts came rushing again.
I had my camera with me. I took many shots. Then, I raced back
home. Smell of fried rice and emdatshi flooded my senses. Yes, my mother was
cooking supper for me. I had to blink back tears as I watched her cook. Oh, it
took me back in those days where she used to ready the supper when I return
from the school and run-rounding, hungry. Whereas, my father would be tuning to
his radio. In some occasions, I used to get arra soaked egg from the bottom of
his arra glass.
Everything about the end of day excited me. The setting sun was
feverishly beautiful here. I sat on the grass, in my courtyard. The sky. At
night. The same sky. I’d always try to count the stars and wondered about the
moon.
Gracious, it was like I kept turning pages of the book of my childhood.
I had surrendered, and I was letting myself feel that deep swirl of my memory,
people, animals, place, of time. But I realized something as I watched and
reminisced about all this. The tears has found me. They were there, in my eyes.
It surprised me. I was not sure why.
It was a winter. I was travelling to Phuentsholing in a
bus. While stopping over at Gedu for a break, an elderly man, who was
hard of hearing, asked me with such sincerity in his tone if I could tell him
where I bought my wig.
