Inner Sanctum of a Temple

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

All she ever wishes

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.  

Exchange Programme

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.

What we don't have

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

About happiness, see these pictures:

Photo courtesy:Gyembo Koottaadogck Namgyal

Over and out there

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.

Blossoming garden

I didn't expect. Wow! Today, my office flower gardens turned lush with blossoming flowers and its aroma. Remember? Just a couple of months ago, along with colleagues, I did voluntary work maintaining these gardens (loosening soil, adding manure, planting new flowers and making wooden fence). And now, oh,  I've a reason to become happy! See the gardens below:

Going back, embracing

“I am very busy,” I used to say to my Mom, to my Dad when they asked me to visit them. My parents, farmers, live in a village called Chuzargang. Chuzargang, consisting over 1,600 households, is about two-hour walk from Gelephu.

But the truth was that I was hesitant to visit my parents. For Gelephu becomes beastly hot in summer. A lot of expenses incurs during travels. And I’ve to walk solid two hours over the most infamous river in Bhutan, the Maokhola, from Gelephu town to reach my village.

So until last week, it had been almost a year, 12 months of excuses and ignoring, I decided to visit my parents. As you would imagine, Gelephu was boiling, then, in almost 36 Degree Celsius. And I had to walk across the 1.8 km long Maokhola, under the hot sun.

After the lunch, I readied my journey from Gelephu town. But I couldn’t walk, go home alone. I needed people going to Chuzargang to tag along. I’ll tell you why. A lonely rough road was its only connection with Gelephu. But the course of this road was always altered by monsoon flashfloods. Moreover, this road was infected with youth, high on drugs or alcohol, attacking travelers. It was wild elephants, poisonous snakes and leeches infected. Also, the Moakhola River was known for claiming lives of people, at least two every summer.

So, I looked for people of my village in Gelephu town. But how do we recognize them? The people of Chuzargang are tanned. They wear their ghos high above their knees and carry green rug sacks on their backs. They are peasants, illiterate or semi-literate and are very tough and strong in physicality. They’re uncommonly humble. And remember, they always wear slippers.

It was a late hot afternoon. As I was sweating profusely, I saw two men in burnt skins, wearing half pants. They wore sleepers. They must be from my village, I reckoned.

I asked them, “Are you from Chuzargang?” one of them nodded. I requested them if I could tag along with them to my village. They agreed. I was lucky that they had a farm tractor returning to Chuzargang, as one of them was the tractor driver. This tractor was donated by READ Bhutan to the people of Chuzargang to promote farm mechanization. Remarkably, Chuzargang is among the highest producers of rice, maize, areca nuts, fruits (banana, lemon, litchi, pineapple, coconuts, jack fruit, mango, pomegranate) and vegetables in our country.

They said before we start the journey, we’ve to charge ourselves as the route is very long and tiring. We entered a bar and ordered three containers of tongpa and a plate of djuma. My head swung; additional tips by the sun heat, ha-ha.

We drove. It was a bumpy ride over the course of the rough road. After a dozen of minutes, we came over the Maokhola. A long bamboo bridge connects the two banks. When the river swells during summer, this temporary bridge will be washed away and the villagers have to use boats.

Oh, over this river, during the last election campaign, the DPT government had promised constructing 1.8 km long motorable bridge. With sheer confidence and ease though. This mega promise was even reflected in their party manifesto. 

Now, it has been exactly four years that the people here have been anticipating the bridge, desperately, disgruntling. And, the interesting part? People have named the river, rather sarcastically, Prem Khola against the name of the Gelephu MP. And Prem Bridge, for the promised motorable bridge.

There are several other small streams to cross. Bicycle is one of the modes of transportation here. Now you would know the reason why people of this region wear their ghos above their knees and only wear sleepers. Yes, it’s because of the streams. 

After that we climbed a hillock. As soon as we scaled the summit a woman cried, “Come lopons, we’ve bangchang, beer, djuma, and momo!” She was underneath a small plastic sheet of a hut, displaying the beverages and snacks. My companions stopped the tractor engine and asked me to come with them. He ordered two bottles of bangchang and two plates of momo.

As the sun stood in the west, we reached Chuzargang. It’s a large village where fertile rice and maize fields, fed by water canals, stretch for acres and acres all sides. Areca nut and banana plants surrounded each typical house, mud-and-dung washed walls and courtyard. Green vegetables and fruits were grown abundantly, and cattle grazing contentedly nearby.

Men and women were tilling the fields or weeding gardens. Children ran from one corner of the fields to the other, jumping joyously like a bunch of colourful dragonflies. A group of young men were enjoying an early dinner with bangchang (local wine). They recognized me, I recognized them. I sat, talked with them over the course of bangchang. I sat there, with them, nostalgic as I drank the local wine.

                 Typical house in Chuzargang (mud-and-dung washed walls and kitchen separate)

Oh jeez, I was in my village, home. I was real happy and felt good. It felt good to be back, to be meeting my parents, to be feeling home, comfortable. And more importantly, it felt good to be not avoiding, making excuses. I was happy not to be complaining of travel expenses, sun heat, the infamous Maokhola, snakes and leeches.    

For being there, and for caring

I struggle. Everyday. I struggle to rise from my bed.  I struggle walking under the monsoon’s scorching sun. I struggle to manage my salary and clear monthly bills. I struggle to keep my promises to my beloved ones. I struggle even meeting deadlines of my official works. Also, I struggle to forget my dreadful past.  

But sometimes I struggle entirely for no precise reasons. And this time, I struggle with an overwhelming sense of confusion. This confusion results from as my mind locks into irregular flow of varying emotions. Fear. Anxiety. Sad. Weariness. Ambiguity.  

To some extent, the naïve philosopher in me delivers to me that we live in a continuous stream of confusion, exploitation, uncertainty and struggling. Or perhaps living also meant struggling, confused and uncertain. I don’t know. But I can tell you how easily we, humans, are knocked off by the swirling rapids of time, reality. And we give into alarm, exploitation, to suffering and loss, accept it as a fact of life. 

And almost everyday I ask myself these questions: why am I here on earth? What exactly God trying to teach me? What’s good? What’s bad? Why we fear? Am I really living my life? Am I a good human being? Is there a next life? What’s the purpose of life? 

Pondering over these questions would crunch core emotions inside of me. And it leaves me excessively vulnerable; I sink into the feeling of being unsafe. I feel fragile and quiet, bruised and wary, sensitive and sad.

Last month, I was bedridden. I was suffering from toothache, in an unrelenting pain. After a few days, I caught high fever. I shivered, sweated a lot. My cheek was swollen. Oh, it was exquisitely painful! I started groaning, crying.

My little sister heard me crying in pain. She entered my room, came to me. She leaned towards, grasping my hands, and said, “Brother, don’t cry. I’ll take care of you and take you for hospital. You’ll be all right!” 

I held her hands tight, crying fresh tears and trying to control it brimming in my eyes. Her attentions, kind words, holding me up not only did fix my pain, but also helps me understand. The little sister of mine helps me understand that there’s turmoil everyday, in one form or another. But there’s also loved ones in our lives who stand with us willing to hold our hands and support us. Each time there’s a stumble, there’s someone willing to hold your hands to ensure you’re not in misery.