Don’t propose girls in Dzongkha

I mean it. Seriously. Don’t ever propose girls in Dzongkha. I’ll tell you why. Dzongkha is terribly unromantic language. Because, ermm, it’s a loud hectoring accented language and has far, far fewer romantic  terminologies. You cannot admire a girl in Dzongkha, you cannot even like her. But you can only propose her. Bluntly. Unchivalrously. Like this, Nga gi tshey lu ga! And any girl would be shell-shocked to hear this, all at once. Huh, this makes your courting offensive and expression of love dull. That’s why, often, you hear many guys becoming penlop, rejected by girls. Whew, don’t propose girls in Dzongkha. 

In the past Dzongkha was spoken in dzongs. This was the language used by Buddhist monks and the administrative staff in dzongs. And those days, during Zhabdrung’s reign and even after his death, the dratshangs and administrative posts in dzongs were all occupied by men. Now just imagine how administrative staff in those days would speak to each other. Full of masculinity, loudness. Again, imagine when monks were smitten with leather whips what kinds of words kudrung would utter. Unmerciful. Monstrosity. 

And from where Dzongkha originated? Ahem, from western Bhutan, from Ngalong, isn’t it? Ngalong, in no doubt, are people with nga-gyel-excessive pride and promising ego. Sorry for being so blunt, but it’s quite true. With pride and ego, comes sternness and masculinity. Am I right? You see Ngalonpa have this attitude. Overpowering and dominating and are resolute to rule others. So, frankly, do I tell you their language, Dzongkha, too is equally astute and egoistic. 

If you don’t believe me, watch people locking horns. Even if they’re Sharchop or Kheng or Lhotsham, they go raving and ranting all in Dzongkha-perhaps to potentially wreak terror over their opponents shouting with help of language. Dominating language, Dzongkha. Rolling up their gho or tego sleeves, they fight. Jedha. Shek taw mey. Jhandey. 

You may grudgingly admit it, but Dzongkha is a language of domination. It’s one-way-traffic language. As was our customary, only parents (especially fathers) and officials holding high ranks do the talking. Barking orders. From top to bottom. Women, children and subordinates were kept silence and were speechless and powerless. Theirs only responsibility was to show respect. Bowing down, in due submission, so low, “Laso la, laso la.” That’s their only language, voice. 

Dzongkha had worked to perfection for leaders of Bhutan-Je Khenpos, Penlops, Desis, Dzongpoens and Kings. Even today watch our leaders speaking, Dzongkha suits them so perfectly. But watch an ordinary man speaking Dzongkha, it proves a menace. Ugh, he sounds disrespectful and disdainful.  It’s even worse when a woman speaks it. Because Dzongkha language contains so much of anger, enrage and loud hectoring accent. And anyone speaking it seems he/she is an angry person and overpowering.

And even today visit any government offices in Bhutan and ask for a small favour from officers. They’d only throw at you a scornful look. “Ahh! Nga meshey!” they’d scold you back, in Dzongkha. And all in your mind only, you’d react (tempers boil over), “Jedha!” 

This could be one solid reason why youth, today, lost interest in learning Dzongkha. Today’s youth are in love and they want to express love, feelings. That’s why they write love letters or exchange greetings cards only in English. 

Note: This post is overtly sensitized, and for fun reading only.

Photo courtesy: Trekearth.com

Even Nature welcomes our Royal Couple

It seemed that spring had swollen to its fullest meaning, just for our King and Queen. It's something so rich, so evocative. Just extraordinarily beautiful!

Photo courtesy: His Majesty King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck

So yesterday

I always try to press ahead-not to retrospect too often. But yesterday, well, while dusting off my closet, I came across a photo that set me back with reminiscences. This photo contains so much of an intense emotion, overwhelming passion and innocence that I’ve never realized before. It made me cry, really cry. And today, I cannot help, but share this with you.

This photograph was taken in 2005. I was a first year student. At Sherubtse College in Kanglung. I was, then, young-young in everything. Even in love. My girlfriend, sad though, was not there in Kanglung (she was studying in Punakha). There’s over 500 miles between us. And now you must be wondering how I had maintained contact with her. Those days, Kanglung had no access to internet, therefore, no e-mail. No mobile network, so no Short Message Services and phone calls.

But every fortnight, on the college notice board, notification from the Kanglung Post Office would read,

Riku Dhan Subba,

First Year, BA (Hons) English

Sherubtse College, Kanglung.

Please, visit the post office to collect your registered letter.

My class forgotten, I’d dart off to the post office. A gorgeous lady, the postmaster, would be sitting in her office. Each time she would make me to sign on a long thick register book. As she would handover an envelope to me, she smiled at me, beautifully.

On the envelope was my name and address. And you just can’t imagine how excited I’d be to receive a letter, my name on it. I’d recognize the handwriting. Ah, it’s my dearest one, my girlfriend’s handwriting! Those letters from my girlfriend were so much to me. More than the monthly money order I used to receive from my father. I’d carefully keep the letter inside pouch of my gho and cherish reading it when I reach home.

Sometimes, letters in my pocket, I used to stroll way above Khangma where the fertile rice and maize fields, fed by water channels, lay luminous for acres and acres. Farmers, rustic, their heads padded with green leaves, curving sickles in their hands, wearing faded kira and gho would be working in fields. And I’d sit down under a handsome tree, unfold the letters hastily but cautiously to avoid damage of envelope and letter inside. Anticipation, thrill, surprise and excitement all would crush into me-which would make me amazed and tearful, all at once. I’d read it once, twice…even a dozen times, until the glare of the sun was sucked out of the day.

In the evening, I’d sprint way down to the Kissing Point. Flock of seabirds would be flying back from somewhere in the east towards their habitats, towards the setting sun, beyond the horizon, beyond those crimson clouds. Against cool evening breeze, I’d walk alone-all in her thoughts-as the stars would begin to switch on one by one and the richly milky moon would come out beautiful.

I’d nestle at the Kissing Point. The play of truck lights, at night, seen from that point would be always mesmeric. Oh, one would feel his/her mind spiraling out, Milky Way style. In a while, the highway would be swarmed with scores of college couples walking hand-in-hand, often misbehaving in public-kissing, hugging and catching and snatching each other’s fingers. And how I’d wish my togetherness with my girlfriend when I could chance to spot shooting stars! So, that way, I had lived on hope. 

Back in my room, again, I’d open and read her letters. Sometimes I used to find rose, petals and her photographs. I used to smile, laugh, even cry and do all sorts of tossing around in my bed while reading letters. In her letters, I could even find her scent. I could feel her when I touched the words on her letters. In each word, I could see a glimpse of the spontaneous flow of her soul and heart. And how sweet, her letters had always stirred up very raw feelings in me-my heart meltdown, my eyes tearful!  

However, it’s never easy to maintain a distant relationship in Kanglung. It’s a couple-driven society. You’re tempted, coaxed, ragged or even dragged into blind dates; then, into unlikely relationship. But nothing did thwart my love, faith for my girlfriend.

And it’s always exciting to go around Upper Market, Lower Market and Post Office buying envelopes and stamps. But, ugh, there always was threat as wicked and venomous seniors would unleash mayhem on us (fresher), anytime. They’d walk straddling in an ungainly waddle swaying from side to side, high on ganja and arra. It was the test of love, though. Temptation. Wicked seniors. All.

I’d spend scores of time choosing the colour of paper to write on and ink to write with. And I’d always write in best words and best handwriting. In a crazed hope, I’d wait for her reply. In each reply, I still remember, how happy I used to be when she appreciated my letters. It’s a motivation to write better in my next letter and improve my handwriting as well.

Good gracious, this is the sheer blessing of writing letter. Today, even after eight years, when I retrospect about writing those letters, it evokes such a delicious nostalgia and happiness.  It makes me cry, really cry and long for those days-pure and noble.         

All there for you!

“The earth turns its orbit for you. The oceans ebb and flow for you. The birds sing for you. The sun rises and it sets for you. The stars come out for you. Every beautiful thing you see, every wondrous thing you experience, is all there for you.”

                                                                                            -Rhonda Byrne, The Secret.

That word is love

I was too tired, last evening, even tired to write. The play of sunset, seen from my bedroom, was mesmerizing. And the fresh aroma of spring was extraordinarily strong in the air.  Since it’s too early for bed, I turned to a gorgeous book and read. I read it in amiable silence, engrossed. Rhonda Byrne’s The Power.

Even now, I’ve not yet been able to put words to just how much I love this book. Rhonda Byrne delighted me with her wide-ranging worldview, critical mind and her compelling deliberation on love. She wrote, 

                       One word frees us all the weight and pain of life. That word is love. 

Again, I love to read a few sentence of this meaningful book:

Love is not just a feeling, love is a positive force. Love is not week, feeble, or soft. Love is the positive force of life. Love is the cause of everything positive and good. Love can create anything good, increase the good things, and change anything negative in your life. You have the power over your health, your wealth, career, relationship, and every area of your life. And that power-love-is inside you.”  

I believe this to be true. And I trust this with all my power. I believe that the power to have all the good and positive things in our life is love. In juxtaposition-just imagine-every single time you experienced something not good, you didn’t love. And the result? Obviously negativity, disappointment and frustration.

And Rhonda Byrne reflected, 

Love is the cause of all the good things in your life, and a lack of love is the cause of all the negative things and all the pain and suffering.

Indeed, it’s never possible to have a great life without love. The wise and successful people think and talk about what they love more than what they don’t love. And just the opposite with those people who are struggling-they think and talk about what they don’t love than what they do love.

This book is more than just a pleasurable reading. It sumptuously healed all negativity in my life (hatred, guilt, disappointment and dreadful past) with love. This book has, instantaneously, helped me resurrect like spring as it enriched my life with warmth, love and understanding about life.      

Without clinging

"We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off-limits to others. We're willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea."

                                                                                                      Anim Pema Chodron 

Courtesy: Through Aby Tharakan's FB wall.

I dance in bliss and plentitude

Yesterday evening I sat, thoughtless, as I was looking out from my window. Oh my God the day was not ok. It’s raining, thick and gray and made me cry, “No, no, no! Common, this is spring. How come raining?” This cold weather only made me want to cuddle in my bed, disgruntling. Burrow deep into my pillows, curl under blankets. 

But I kept staring out the window, quiet and contemplative. And I drew my focus, eventually, closer to a peach plant next to the place I stay. I saw the plant dancing against the raindrops, in bliss and plentitude. I ran down, sat near the peach and watched it, strangely fascinated.

The earth beneath my feet loosened, the plant’s dark barks bearing flowers, the root absorbing rainwater. Flowers and shrubs nearby are sprouting with lush leaves and flowers. And you know this rain (which we, humans, been cursing for making our day worse) is only doing its service duly to the nature, to us. It’s only watering (or feeding) the plants around us. So that once again the plants grow beautiful in lush green and greet us with fresh spring fragrance and colours. 

And like the flock of birds swirling around the peach plant, I danced in a fury of excitement, welcoming the spring, warmth and love.                

A man behind the Chuzangang rice

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I always feel proud to talk about my father. My father is Lal Bdr. Subba and is in late 60s. To tell you, my father is the sole person behind the production of Chuzangang rice, thanks to the agriculture ministry that initiated farm mechanization in my village since 2008. In fact, he is the only person who has started farm mechanization and rice commercialization in Sarpang.

Every year, my father cultivates over 37 acres land of rice plantation in Chuzangang. Annually, he produces from 300 to 500 muri (60 kgs in one muri) of rice. All this harvest is reserved for the agriculture ministry, which later processed by the rice mills and packaged as the Chuzangang Rice. The marketing agent, then, supplies the packaged rice all over Bhutan.

Raw rice for packaging:

My father and his rice mill and maize mill:

His tractor:

Rice dropping machine:

Rice field and irrigation canal: