Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Way back to boyhood
Last
weekend was gorgeous. As I had my friends, three of them, come to meet me,
at my home. We’re all college buddies, very close. Today, two of them are
happily married and have a kid each. And one into serious relationship. All of
them are well educated and doing quite well in life with successful careers.
As
we sat, we talked about weird things like politics, taxes, economic crisis and
corruption. We also have a chat about school choices for our children and what we
look for when we are buying a car, home and plot of land.
How
weird, I thought, to talk about all this things. It’s so adult of us to talk like
this. And who are these grownups? Shouldn’t our parents and those adults be
talking about that whole tax, school choices for children and politics things?
Five years back, in the college, we would only talk about fun, college hot
girls, foods, dates, and movies.
But
I looked at my friends and they look same as they always have. Still innocent,
impulsive, freaking and boyish.
They,
too, looked at me and understood what I was thinking. And we laughed.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The industrious entrepreneur
The day has turned bewitchingly
colder in Thimphu, the wind more iciness. The bitter winter is here, inevitably.
And since the mid-morning, I was waiting for my friend at the Thimphu Town for
a work. It’s frost-cold out in the open. My hands turned cold as ice. And the
chill spread through my veins and my back ached badly, shrieking with cold.
“Wait, I’m coming…on the
way…five minutes,” my friend hung up my phone calls. More than 30 minutes
passed, yet he didn’t turn up. Fucking
liar, jedha, I grumbled,
scratching my head. The obvious tempers boiled over me, making me go mad,
literally. Yes, all this cold, backache and frustration of waiting here.
Finally, I decided to return home.
So, I walked way up. And
you all know that this street is boisterously crowded; all equal-people, cars, shops,
and even dogs. But I agree that it’s, undoubtedly, an intense and overwhelming
City. And here, you can meet people with various expressions on their faces:
excitement, happiness, intoxicated, stress, hunger and pain. Even anger, like
mine, he-he.
And for the record, this
street has no dearth of beautiful girls. After each few footsteps, you always come
across one after another gorgeous girls. Seriously la! And allow me to be honest with you. Continuing the walk, ahem,
I stole quick look at them, each one of them. C’mon man, because they’re so
irresistible, and after all, I’m a man.
At the main traffic, oh, I came
across a painful scene. An old mustached man, a beggar, was seated on the
street lane in a mournful state. I looked at this old man so obsessively, with
strange remorse and curiosity. I don’t know why. On his face, I saw, he carried
a deep well of destitution and hopelessness.
However, the brutal truth
is that when you walk across this street you would meet at least a dozen of
beggars, of all ages. And more disheartening…every time, you would see here new
beggars, begging embarrassingly.
And this beggar, supposedly
in 60s, has his head padded with a monk hat, a drum in his right hand, bell in
his left hand and he wore a Buddhist monk’s robes. But one can easily make out
that he isn’t a monk. Right in front of him, he has a box. Only a few people have
dropped money in that box.
He woke up abruptly and
collected his stuff (a walking stick, umbrella, jacket and mat). And he set off
to the Norling Complex where he saw better fortune, more people passing by. I
followed him. At the alley, right in front of the complex, he dropped his
things. He pushed his umbrella and jacket in one corner and arranged his mat on
the floor and sat, cross-legged. He placed the money box in front of him, took
out his drum and bell and began his daily chore of begging as the mid-morning
sun fell heavy on him.
Here, the alley has been swarmed
with people passing by, non-stop. Some people looked at him with a surge of
pity and affection and altruistically dropped money in his box. Others didn’t
even bother to look at him. And a few looked at him disrespect and disdain.
And lo, this surprised me.
When he sees more people passing by, he hits his drum harder, rings the bell louder
and chants religious mantra. This drum, bell and mantra are all his tools that he
deploys exquisitely to attract customers. Even the monk’s robes he wears. When
there are no people, he puts down his drum and bell.
Pic: When he leaves for tea and snacks
Each time his money box is half full, he collects the money and keeps it safe in a bag that he has worn over his chest. And my head filled with amazement. Goodness, he is so well-organized in his work.
There were comic interludes
too. His money earns him enemies. That’s why beggars don’t do their work at
night. Children and youth always attack their money. See, for example, this
small kid fusing closer to steal money from that box.
Like any one else I was also
really curious to know his income. So, I went next to him. He eyed me
cautiously. But I forced upon him a small token of friendship in Nu 50 note. He
told me that he was introduced to begging by his friend a few years back. When
asked how long he works here, he answered, “9 am to 5 pm”.
And sitting next to him, I
counted each currency note (money) falling into his box. I was shocked witless.
In every ten minutes, there’s no fewer than Nu 120 collected in the box. That
means he earns around Nu 1,000 a day. And Nu 30,000 a month. He is, oh god, a
rich man!
Then I asked him where he
keeps his money. He replied me, rather hesitantly, “As soon as my bag is full,
I go to my relative who runs a restaurant here. I always deposit my money with
him as he looks after my health and children’s education. My children study in
India.”
This beggar intrigued me. He
is not a mere faceless wretched beggar, but an industrious entrepreneur who
taught me that even this work (begging) requires hard work, desire, risks, innovation
and entrepreneurship skills.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Brothers’ Day-Bhai Tika
I’m
a Hindu, and so is my family. And you all know that yesterday was the Bhai
Tika, the fifth and last day of Diwali celebrations. Two of my sisters who live
here in Thimphu invited me. Because it’s the most significant day for a brother
and sister in our culture; a day where a sister puts tika on forehead of her brother to
ensure long life and thank him for the protection he gives. More importantly, this occasion honors brother-sister relationship,
celebrating the holy emotional bond we share.
My
sisters have decorated their house with lights and flowers. It looked like a
sparkling diamond. In
every door and window, small clay lamps filled with oil were lighted to signify how the
tiny flickers of light would waive off evil.
To begin the tika ceremony, my sisters performed a puja for
Lord Ganesh, Janmaraj (the God of Birth), and Yamaraj. And I was requested to
sit on a mat for the tika ceremony, as my sisters
broke a walnut, praying for me:
No
obstacles to come in my brother’s way,
If
came, may it break like this nut.
Then, my sisters
poured circles of oil and holy water from a copper pitcher around my body for
three times. It signifies as a boundary over which death and evil spirits
cannot pass me. Kneeling before me, they worshiped me with the offerings of
flowers, nuts, fruits, and rice.
The most important act of
the day was applying the special tika
on my forehead. The tika consists of seven colored tika (the colours of the
rainbow). First, my sisters applied a white base (made from rice paste) on my
forehead and on top of it, they dabbed the tika with their fingers.
They have made a special marigold garland for me. As they put this flower garland around my neck and prayed for my long life, happiness and continued prosperity, they chanted this invocation:
They have made a special marigold garland for me. As they put this flower garland around my neck and prayed for my long life, happiness and continued prosperity, they chanted this invocation:
Thus
do I mark my brother’s forehead and thereby plant a thorn at the Door of
Yamaraj, marking entrance into death impossible. As Jamuna streaked the
forehead of her brother, so I do my brother’s. As Yamaraj is immortal, so may
my brother also be immortal.
Because we believe that the tika drawn by
our sisters on our foreheads protects us life from the clutches of Yamaraj, God
of death. And performing of these required rituals
with love, dedication and gaiety would protect brothers from death and that
they will enjoy a long life, health and prosperity.
Then, I was requested to give tika to my sisters
in the same fashion. After completing the tika ceremony, my sisters offered me
special gifts and a fantastic midday feast. In
return, I delighted my sisters with gifts and money. After that, there was a lot
of merriment on this occasion. We sang and danced and our mood was generally
delirious.
And like every Bhai Tika, the day came to an end with
feelings of love and renewal of the brother-sister bond. Yamaraj, the God of
Death was again warded off with flowers, holy water, and the precious bhai tika
until the next year. And next year it will be done the same…on and on through
the cycles of eternity. As a brother, I’d keep providing my sisters protection, care
and support.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Growing up with Blog
My friend, Kama, is the first
person who introduced me to blogging. It was in 2009. He showed to me a handful
blogs of Bhutanese. A few amongst them are Sogyel, Passu, and Penstar. These people have maintained
their blogs beautiful; even more so, they’ve written gloriously. And I can’t
tell you how much their words captivated me. Oh, I adored the idea that I, too, could make a difference
with words; I could impact people with a blog. I want one such blog, I had desired.
But it was only in July
2010 that I could create my own blog. Yes, this blog. My ex-girlfriend, who is
also a blogger, has created this blog for me. In fact, she has played a central
role in my creative life. She’s the woman who instilled in me this habit of writing
and reading books. Today, wherever she would be, I give her thank for all this.
Now, it’s been two years of
blogging and it’s
hard for me to imagine my life without it. This blog has a
tight claim on my heart. In the beginning, I wrote particularly for myself. I
was, then, going through difficult circumstances and writing, for me, was
healing.
I didn’t mind spending
hours holed, alone, writing. However, writing helped me discover fresh wisdoms
and better understanding of life by delving into different circumstances and
exploring my feelings and imaginations. The practice of writing here, on my blog, has enormously
changed the way I relate and engage with the world.
But today what stands out
for me is this blogging journey that I’ve been privileged to take, the community
of blogger friends that I’ve found and kept, and the posts I’ve written. There
are many fellow-bloggers that I never met in person, but it seems to me that I
know them very well. When I see them in the towns and meetings, I call out and
talk to them. And I’m proud to say that many bloggers have come to meet me.
Over cup of coffee or tea, we chat, mostly about blogging and bloggers.
It brings me immense pleasure and satisfaction when I hear
my post touches a reader and provides a similar sensation to someone
else. One of my ardent readers wrote to me:
“Hey,
it’s like you’ve pulled all words from my heart and put them on paper, on your
blog. Everything you say, I was nodding here. I feel same like you though I
could never express it on paper, and thank goodness I realized now that I’m not
alone.”
And
you know what? I love to spend uninterrupted time going through all your
updated blogs. Reading
your stories is a favorite pastime of mine. You
make me feel nostalgic, amazed, and wiser with your brilliant post and
idealisms.
A few published authors told me to stop blogging and free up
all time for writing books. Even many of my friends, colleagues and blog
followers wanted me to try to do some real writing outside of this blog. But,
now and then, I think I just can’t seem to do that. After all, this blog
has given me so much that I can’t just ignore it, right away.
Today, there are many Bhutanese newspapers and magazines, and even a few international websites that wanted me to write for them. Also, a few emerging projects and organizations wanted me with them. And yes, this blog reached me to an audience with our beloved King and Queen.
Today, there are many Bhutanese newspapers and magazines, and even a few international websites that wanted me to write for them. Also, a few emerging projects and organizations wanted me with them. And yes, this blog reached me to an audience with our beloved King and Queen.
Yet, I know that my blog posts aren’t eloquent or genius. They
are boring, cliché and predictable. Because the truth is that I’m still experimenting
writing with all the flaws, foibles and fragilities. I’m still a mediocre writer who has lots to
learn himself. But I say…my writings are just real. Very raw, spoken like a
true teenager, saturated with honesty.
I also know that through writing, I’ve always revealed something
about myself. For, I’ve allowed myself to be seen naked, my heart
rippened open. Sometimes, I’ve dug deep into my old wounds, my past and I’ve become emotional,
over-sensitive and weepy. Other times, I’ve become bitter and sarcastic. I’ve also
exposed my weakness and vulnerability and feelings of insecurity, fear, and
loneliness. But oftentimes, I’ve stood optimistic and positive, writing about
beauty and celebrating life. Well, my blog is all about this. And, in the
looking, I find my whole life in it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
A tree, four seasons
I am constantly awed and moved by the trees. I loved it so much! Midway
to my office from my home, I always see a tree, just a few yards down the road.
Always, I inch my way towards it and look at it. And I looked so admirably and
take its pictures. It’s exactly one year that I’ve been doing this.
In winter, I saw it exhausted by hardest of wintry weather; in spring, sprouting
in fresh leaves and bussing birds; in summer, growing lush in green and
abundance; and in autumn, its leaves and seeds have stripped down, decaying on
the ground.
More importantly, this tree has become my great master, in its truest sense.
It constantly teaches me about different aspects of life. You can view this tree in four different seasons:
In winter:
In winter:
Thursday, November 1, 2012
A lot like love
I’ve skipped my evening
tea, gave up walk, ignored phone calls, sacrificed my favorite TV shows, and
missed the sunset seen from my room. And here, in my little room, I keep writing
this post, all happy. It’s all about one of the most beautiful episodes of my
life, my little life I had lived 13 years back.
It was in 1999. So to say. I
was, then, studying in Class VII at Yebilaptsa MSS, a remote boarding school in
Zhemgang. I’ll tell you…it’s all so sweet, so short, and unassumingly strange.
I was a good boy. Disciplined. Excellent in
studies. Also, active in extra-curricular activities. Ahem, I had earned many
admirers amongst school girls. Seriously, he-he. Many times, uh, I received letters
from them, even from the school’s hottest girls. I was a charming, cool, and damn-less, they would say.
But I had no idea of what love
is. I was, more tellingly, too young to understand love and being in a
relationship. I had felt that there’s no such feeling called love. Not in this
world. Ever. At least, not for me. My priority was to excel in studies and do
well in life.
Well, I had a close friend
of mine. Yeah, a girl. She, I dare say, was a fair, gorgeous and smart girl. I’d
spend my time, mostly, with her. During intervals, we’d always meet and talk,
in fact, nothing significant in particular. But we’d just love to do that.
We’d help each other in our
homework, assignments. Just before exams and on our birthdays, we’d exchange
cards and gifts. She’d share her parcels (packaged foods or groceries) with me.
During the mealtimes, she would bring me ezey.
In the evenings, after our
class, we’d walk by the school gardens. Hand-in-hand. Occasionally, she’d pluck
marigold and give it to me. A few times, she had surprised me with red roses. But
no, no, we’re good friends only…yes, yes, very close friends.
And I’m just going to very candid
and honest. Ermm…when I fell sick I’d write her letters talking about my health
and my hunger for meeting her again. So badly. I used to experience an empty
feeling in her absence. So you guess now. Is it love? But I had felt that there
was never any feelings for her. She was only a close friend. Nothing more.
Our annual exams was just
one week to come. It’s early November, and this time of year in Zhemgang was
particularly elusive as days getting bewitchingly shorter and shorter, and
colder and colder. Students were seen busy preparing for the exams. Some were
busy exchanging wishing cards. Others were just excited to go home for the long
winter vacation.
It’s this time, one icy
morning, two of us were summoned in the principal’s office. As soon as we entered
his office, he barked at us, “Are you two lovers?” I went blank; stood there, flabbergasted.
I didn’t know how to react. A strict disciplinarian, he was a voice of god,
never to be questioned or challenged.
He told me to bend down. Then,
he ruthlessly smacked on my back with a cane stick. 13 times, I still remember.
My breath stopped, literally, and I was dead for a moment. He warned me, “If I again
hear or see you two together, I will expel you out of this school!’
As I left his office, I heard
another eerie and frightening noise of brutal smacking. It was followed by an agonizing
sharp cry. Alas, she was on the receiving end.
Our beautiful friendship was
lost in a single explosive moment. After that damaging experience, we never
met. Exams came and over, yet we didn’t meet. We packed our luggage to go home
for vacation, yet we daren’t meet. It was a draconian and unfair farewell, I
must say.
I never met her in my life as
I had so fervently hoped and desired. I tried to trace her whereabouts, but all
in vain. She had completely disappeared out of my life for the last 13 years.
But a little over month
before, I met her. Yes, here in Thimphu. You never know how excited I’ve
become. I took her in a cozy restaurant to treat her cup of coffee. More than
that, I wanted to talk to her. First shock: She is married and has a kid. Damn!
As we kept sipping on hot
coffee, we asked and talked about our personal life, our family and career.
Then, our conversation tuned into our childhood. We reminisced and talked about
it for so long, for hours. It appeared as if we wanted, so badly, to turn back hands
of time and start our life together all over again.
Our coffee over and as we
moved out from the restaurant, she told me this. Second shock: “If you had
proposed me that time, I would certainly accept you!” And I replied her, “Had
you been still single today, I’d come to you with a marriage proposal!”
Instantly, she choked up,
the tears finding her. Her tears mixed with the black mascara and foundation on
her face. As I watched her, I realized something. I had tears too. They were
there, in my eyes. And I’m not sure why. My tears surprised me. I tried to lift
my head up, with the hope that I could prevent it from flowing down my cheeks.
I couldn’t.
Finally, I let the tears
plummet down my cheeks. But this crying, bursting out tears was so freeing, so
relieving. And this reminded me one important aspect of life. Letting go! Like
the tears flowing down, in life we’ve to let go some people or forget our past even
though how beautiful or reverberating they appear. Life is, after all, the end
of one era, the beginning of another.
Photo courtesy: http://www.facebook.com/yebilaptsamss.bhutan?fref=ts
Photo courtesy: http://www.facebook.com/yebilaptsamss.bhutan?fref=ts
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