"When you talk about any
difficulties with money, a relationship, an illness, or even that the profits
of your business are down, you are not talking about what you love. When you
talk about a bad event in the news, or a person or situation that annoyed or frustrated
you, your are not talking about what you love. Talking about the bad day you
had, being late for an appointment, getting caught in traffic, or missing the
bus are all talking about what you don’t love. There are many little things
that happen each day; if you caught up in talking about what you don’t love,
every one of those little things brings more struggle and difficulty to your
life.
You have to talk about the good
news of the day. Talk about the appointment that went well. Talk about how you
love being on time. Talk about how it is to be full of health. Talk about the
profits you want your business to achieve. Talk about the situations and
interactions you had in your day that went well. You have to talk about what
you love, to bring what you love to you.
…To have a great life…give love,
talk only about what you love, and love will set you free!"
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.
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!
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.
“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.”
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.
"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."
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.
