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.

From Gelephu with love

I had just arrived Gelephu for a fortnight-long official tour. Warm air gushed forth in a bus I was travelling from Thimphu. The air was humid, thick. It, uh, suffocated me. And even to catch my breath for me had become, so unexpectedly, difficult.

 *Sigh*

I was seated in the bus, doing nothing, my arms and legs akimbo. But my body got heated automatically. In a while, my body started streaming with sweat and it drenched my shirt completely bringing a touch of nauseous. Yuck, I felt as if I were bathing in sweat.

Even at 6 pm, the sun in Gelephu would be bright, beastly hot. Temperature, eh? It’d be, rather roughly, about 36 Degree Celsius. And you know what? Gelephu has got one of the hateful winds. It remains stagnant, sun heated.

What made my trip worse was that Gelephu hardly saw rain in the last two weeks. Often, it had been sunny, hard, brutal heat. Now I understood why people of this region are burnt skins. Men, generally, wear half vest and half pants. Women wear cotton lungi, a garment hanging from waist till toe, and thin blouse. And all wear slippers.

At almost all meeting places and markets, tall notification boards read,

You are now in the malaria endemic area, beware of malaria and dengue!

And it says that malaria and dengue leads to “complication and death”.

Scary, na? I had some anti-malarial creams and always used bed net at night. Still then, it’s frightening to stay here in summer. You know all threats: humid air, hot sun and heat, malaria and dengue. What else? Hoo-ha, poisonous snakes and leeches too.

When home, I read a little, not a lot, but sweat streamed down relentlessly. Electric fan only blows a warmer current of air. I dozed off. In two weeks, for god’s sake, I could complete, with much difficult, only the first chapter of a novel. I wanted to write, but I suffered from a block. It’s due to humid air suffocating me, blocking my creative thinking. And the worst thing? Even thinking was exhausting. It made me sweat and weary.

Give me a break!

Did I say about my sleepless nights? Well, I spent all nights tossing and turning in my bed. Sleepless. Because the mosquito netting had further suffocated me. And even inside your net, this blood sucking creature would bite you. Jedha. Yes, even after you had applied anti-malarial creams on your body.

In a day, my skin burnt. Gosh, this burn was an intense pain! I brought sun block creams all the way from Thimphu. But sweat would wash it away from your body. And you’re exposed to that dangerous sunlight called UV, unprotected.

Oh, I forgot to tell you one more thing. It’s about my duty (official) in Gelephu. Under the burning sun, I set off to work at 10 am. In my workplace, I’d just put on fan, stay idle, robotic and dull, gazing up at ceiling. And lost, rather ominously. Psst! I attempted to work on my PC. Oh, it’s just another vain attempt. Then, I’d lie down on a divan, almost entire day snoring, exceedingly tired. I was, yeah, exhausted by the hardest of summer sun. Forget about meeting my friends or even date, I couldn’t even walk out of my house.

I wouldn’t whine anymore, he-he!

However, as the days rolled into weeks, well, I had started taking pleasure in things and people in Gelephu. I had, so automatically, ultimately adjusted here. I always used to believe that in time things change and we, humans, have supreme capacity within to adjust to any places. I was not sure precisely how, but with perseverance, I discovered now, would everything be perfect in the end. There’s something good, and kind, and gentle for everyone everywhere. Now, I feel, I’ve become a part of Gelephu. I’m burnt skins, suntanned. I wear half vest, half pants. And sleepers on my feet. I sweat, yet I can walk and work. Without grumbling.  

Living an extraordinary life in a hopeless place

The article below is written by Wangchuk Dema, 19. She has qualified for Sherubtse College and will be joining her first semester this July. She is one of the founding members of the Go Youth Go (GyG), a community group founded by a handful of young people to bring positive social change in our society. This is one of her first experiences as a GYG member and in this article she has talked about it so gorgeously and inspiringly. Read it. 

One afternoon, last month, I visited the Patient’s Guest House at JDWNRH in Thimphu. My friend, Jigme Kuenga, was also with me. The Patient’s Guest House provides refuge to 28 patients, mostly kidney failure patients. And a few are homeless senior citizens. It is one of our first social activities to meet and help patients wash their laundry after we founded the Go Youth Go (GyG).  

                                            Pic: Pema Choki with Tandin Bidha (actor) 

As we went around meeting each patient, I spotted a young girl curling against pillow in her bed. She has a small frail body, boyish hairdo and pretty eyes. But inside herself, she carries a deep well of sadness and uncertainty. I went closer to her. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to know about her story and help her in all our powers that we as a group could do.

Pema Choki is her sweet name. And she is 16-year-old. Just three years younger than me. She is the third child amongst five siblings. An introvert, she has got one of the nicest laughs. But it was very painful to know that she lost both of her kidneys. She was, then, just 12.

However, it didn’t knock her down that time, for she was way too naive to understand about the dreadful fate. She was immediately referred to JDWNRH from her village, Ramjar in Trashiyangtse. Then she was, straightaway, admitted at Patient’s Guest House. She became the youngest kidney-failure patient in Bhutan.

                                       Pic: Pema with Lhamo Drukpa (Actor) and other patients

But when she couldn’t recover as she had so fervently hoped, slowly, she began to understand about her wretched condition. She comprehended that she was living a life so different, mired in hopelessness. Or perhaps more tellingly, a life less dignified-all buried in pain, uncertainty and depression. Her future, too, looks unpromising and uncertain.

It hurts way worse to discover that Pema Choki cannot attend school. She cannot travel out of Thimphu. Even she cannot eat all delicious foods and engage into merrymaking or fun activities. When she first understood that she cannot go to school, she cried, heartbroken. “I cried endless when I first discovered about my kidney failure. I thought I would die right away. I was more heartbroken and depressed when I apprehended that I cannot run, dance, go to school or have fun like my friends,” she said, her eyes glittering. 

Pema Choki is still seeking for kidney donor. The good news is that once she gets a donor and after renal transplant, she can once again live a normal life. Her parents, relatives and friends are doing all in their powers searching donor for her. But it went on, year after year, by the way. There were no hopes this far out. It has been now four years. However, her parents back in village, so earnestly, pray for her.

Today, Pema Choki’s life is solely depended on dialysis. In every four to five days, she is called for dialysis at JDWNRH which takes about four hours. Kidney failure patients like her survive only with the aid of dialysis machine. Pema admits dialysis treatment is “very painful” and she loathes it. She undergoes “an immense throbbing” and gets “headache and dizziness” during dialysis. But she has to depend on this treatment until she finds a donor. 

When asked about her favorite leisure time, Pema Choki replied in a soft tone, “I love watching television. I watch Bhutanese and Hindi serials and films. It keeps me occupied and happy. At times, I forget about my sickness.” Every weekend, Pema’s two elder sisters visit her and help with all laundry and other chores. Along with them, she goes out for shopping in the town. They also circumambulate the Memorial Chorten. Other times, they march way up to Kuensel Phodrang and other nature parks. Occasionally, her parents all the way from village visit her. She finds pleasure so enormously in all this simple activities.

Today, Pema Seldon, her sister, a Class X student attends to her. She revealed, chuckling, Pema Choki has a good vocal. With a shilly-shally smile, Pema Choki accepted the fact of singing but refused to sing for me and my friend, Jigme.

Three wishes if ever granted, Pema Choki would first wish to find a donor and do her renal transplant and once again live a normal life. Secondly, she would pray for all those people that are ill and facing death and work tirelessly to free them from their sufferings. Lastly, she wishes never to become a burden on her parents.

And I couldn’t help making this comparison. Our pain, anxiety, failure and sickness are nothing. Indeed, we’re very selfish. We fight toward our own personal goal, gratification, focused in our priorities. We feel, all time, we never had enough. But looking at Pema Choki, we bask in bliss and plentitude. Yet we cry when our parents don’t buy us cell phone or shoes. We cry when we catch light fever or when someone ignores us. But here’s this young girl, just 16, even when fate buried her in such a wretched condition, she still prays for others’ wellbeing and wishes to live a normal life only to help those sufferings. 

When asked she ever envied those children who go to school, Pema replied, “I’m just happy for those fortunate ones.” She added, “I accept the way I am today. We should be grateful for this life. Indeed, we should earn merits by contributing good deeds, so that karma can play a clean game with us in our next life even if we don’t attain enlightenment.” Pema Choki believes that in her previous life she couldn’t have done so well that concluded her fate of misery in this life.

It hit me by surprise. She is young and has neither education nor the knowledge of the Book, but in the last four years of difficult times she has fully understood the conceptual world of samsara. We’ve a good strength of physical body. But she has a good strength of mind. Pema Choki, in no doubt, is not living an ordinary life. But she is only living an extraordinary life. Because she knew her mind. And this makes her way superior to us. Wiser. Invincible. Compassionate.

                                                        Pic: Wangchuk Dema and Jigme Kuenga

Jigme and I spent the entire day washing Pema Choki and other patients’ clothes and talking to them. Only in the evening we returned home. I left so, so grateful for Pema Choki, for her imponderable wisdoms. I left wishing with all my might that she would be granted a normal life with kidney of a benevolent person.

Like you and me, Pema Choki also deserves a second chance to live a normal life.

Black and white

It’s funny. It’s desperate. It’s honest. It’ll move you. And so, frankly, do I say there’s no going back to it, yet I reminisce, often, with uncontrollable laughter. Yes, I’m going to tell you about my childhood incident. It happened when I was 7 years old. Eh? I’m not sure precisely. Probably it was in 1992. At Norbuling, my village, almost two-hour walk from Gelephu.

I was, then, in stick limbs, burnt skin. But uncommonly alert, bright and resilient lad. I could tell. And I had a handful of friends-all alike me. Unkempt. Rowdy. Lilliputians. In their company, I used to huff and puff around my village, causing constant troubles to villagers especially young girls. And I would return home only when hungry. Say what you like about a notorious lad-and I had all.

You would never guess how much allergic I was to taking bath. As much as dogs hate it, ha-ha. My hands and knees were always dirt stained. All blames put on marbles. I would be playing marbles, oftentimes. And you know what? I had learned a correct way to strike marbles. I’ll show you how. I would close my left eyes and my right eye aiming at marbles in a ring. My right knee bent, left one on dusty ground (for balance), a swift kiss for luck and then strike to knock marbles. Wow, I had won a boomer jar full of it. My coveted achievement though.

Now, I know, you must be wondering what my parents had been doing? I’ll tell you, my parents gave birth to 13 children. I’m the youngest son. That’s why they couldn’t, at all, give care for us. Of 13 siblings, two died-one from untreated malaria and another from evil spirit. But unfortunately both died home, not in BHU or hospital.

And those days, you don’t know how much fascination I held for watching video. Ajay Devgun in his side pungs and damnless looks. Sunil Shetty, for his bulging biceps. Akshay Kumar, for his sexy voice and flying kick. I was also equally fascinated by Rambo‘s guns and Superman’s costume. My room’s walls papered with post cards of these stars. Also my auto books.

But those days, in the whole village, my uncle (a recent retiree, then, from his service as a RBP constable) was the only one who had video. Black and white. Solar energy. He’d invite us to watch video when he had hired new cassettes from the market. But this was very rare. And my father had only a Philips radio. I loved listening to film dialogues and songs in his radio. How sweet! But this too was very rare as my father had been glued listening to news. Of course, his best companion.

And the interesting part? At my uncle’s house, I was always asked to rewind video cassette. With the help of a stick. It required quite a deal of energy and time to complete the task. Almost the length of a-cup-of-tea-long conversation. After that I’d sit in a corner, in well-behaved silence, watching video without even blinking my eyes. Ah, next day, in my school, I’d be narrating about the film to my mates. Even imitating film’s dialogue and enacting in front of them. 

One afternoon, a friend of mine brought a cassette. I don’t know from where he got it. I gathered, instantaneously, all my friends and went to my uncle’s house to watch it. As my uncle put on his video, we sat on the floor all in polite smile and happy. My uncle and aunt also sat in a divan to watch the film.

First scene: Gunfight in a swimming pool. Two men killed.

Second scene: A blonde climbs down a stair in bathrobe. Colour of her bathrobe? I don’t know. I already told you that it was a black and white video screen, no? And two men, masculine, appeared out of nowhere. Oh my gosh! The blonde, uh, starts undressing herself in front of two men. The scene bizarrely plunged into something quite unexpected. It was a triple, sex among three of them.

As they go hammer and tongs at it, thunderous strikes of orgasm revved up and ranted the room. It was a breathlessly awkward moment that I stood confused, caught between whether to continue watching video or leave the house. A catch-22, absolutely. Videos, those days, had no remote control. So, my uncle ran frantically and ejected the cassette. He threw the cassette at us, laughing. We raced out of house.

In fact, that was my life’s first time that I watched porn video. That’s also with my uncle and aunt, ha-ha. It’s hysterically weird, but nevertheless true. Undeniably. Unforgettably. 

Photo courtesy: Tashi Wangchuk; googlsearch

Letting it go

I learn everyday. Each new day is one more day that surprises me with new awakening, wisdom. That’s why I feel, at times, that I live wide awake. And this overwhelms me. Really. This is obvious reason why I want to live long. And die as an old man. Wise and fully awake. I hope you, too, feel the same. Do you? 

As I walk between my house and office every day, I spend quite a deal of time watching trees, flowers, chirping birds, crimson clouds and the sun. And the moon and stars at night. I sit, reverent, as I watch them. Pondering. Wondering. I find song in them, truthfully, the essence of life. How? I don’t know. I can’t explain it to you. But I do feel it. I do hear it. I do understand it, deep in my heart.

But all this remind me one important thing. A time of transition. That we live in a world of transition. That we change. That everything around us transit. And interestingly, we also learn to let things go and readjust ourselves to the change.

Lo and behold, the year is already at spring. Trees, grasses and flowers have themselves sprouting in lush green, colourful. This is time of transition, isn’t it? I can feel we’re slowly creeping into another season. Inexorably though. After a month, we’ll be moving into warmer and wet season. Summer. Then into season of fall. Autumn. Each change of season, though reluctantly, we learn to readjust, right? 

And you don’t know how much I dislike change. I’m really a kind of person holding-onto-things-and-never-them-go. But each time I watch trees and flowers, it makes me to realize that holding onto something is futile. For example, though a tree grows lush green in spring and summer, it has to ultimately shed its leaves in autumn. 

Whatever we’re holding onto, we just have to let them go. Oh, I cannot stop thinking about this. About a year and half before, my heart was badly broken. You’re right! Yes, I broke up from my girlfriend with whom I had spent a solid seven years and was thinking I can never live without her. I suffered. I shed endless tears, literally. Thank goodness, now my heart is mended and I learned to live without my first love. I learned to be strong, took each day step-by-step and survive every sad moment. For better or worse I learned that sometimes growing up means letting go. 

Whether you realize it or not, every day you come across lots of change and transition. Every hi ends with goodbye. A good friend of yours may turn back at you when you need him/her the most. You may get a fast-track promotion. This is also possible that you may lose your beloved ones. And this naïve philosopher in me cannot help thinking that we tread every day on thin line between holiness and adversity. 

Knowingly or unknowingly, we let go things or people every day. But the good news is that we learn to readjust as we tread the routine of transition. This is yet again best taught by the tree that loses its leaves, stays barren, however, readjusts to stand alive in harsh cold winter. 

And there comes a time, ah, that we’ll be in our deathbed. Inevitably. That time though we’re very much attached to our beloved ones, properties, beautiful memories and this wonderful world, we’ve to learn to accept the truth of life. We let go our beloved ones and this beautiful world and learn to prepare for afterlife. 

Hold on for a sec! After all, isn’t every day holds an ending? Aren’t we letting go every single day and nearing to that end, death?

Photo courtesy: googlesearch