Writing to remember, to be remembered

I want to remember. Yes, this particular incident that had happened way back in 1993. It was all inspired by my little sister, Chunku. I was, then, 10. Chunku was just three. And I’m writing this post to remember this beautiful moment. To relive. To cherish. To become inspired, happy.

We were, then, taking a refuge in a remote place called Tingtibi in Zhemgang. For the five difficult years. 1990 to 1994. By the way, the upsurge of anti-national problems in 1990 had demolished our homes in Gelephu. And more precisely, we were under constant attacks.    

All due to good fortune, my father had got a caretaker’s job at an orange orchard in Tingtibi. There, we had built a small hut and called it our new home. However, life was not easy. My father’s income was not enough to feed the entire family, 25 of us. Poverty ensnared us. We had to survive on wild foods, animals and fishing in the rivers.

We were 11 siblings. Plus two mothers. And my father. Three of my siblings had to drop out from their schools due to the political turmoil and poverty. However, my parents still enrolled me in a primary school in Tingtibi.

I started going to school at the age of 10 only. From 1993. And the incident that I want to remember happened in that year’s summer.

It was one morning. I was readying myself for the school. Chunku, my little sister, marched towards me and gave me Nu 2. She had bright eyes, long hair, graceful limbs and fair skin.

And she made a gentle request, “Acho, please buy me balloons with this money.”

She would get three balloons for Nu 1. Altogether, two ngultrums could fetch her six balloons. I agreed to buy her balloons.

I pushed inside the pouch of my gho a geometric box, aluminum plate and mug. And I started running towards my school. But I had a friend to accompany all time. He was Tommy, my pet dog, red and huge.

My school was about three hours walking from my house. Everyday, Tommy and I had to run into deep woods, cliffs and a few river streams. Also, we had to climb over a mountain, cross a highway road and enter a small town. And then we would reach the school.

My classroom was a bago, without any proper school structure. Its walls were raw woods. The tables and writing tables were long wooden planks. And an old blackboard kept in front of the classroom. You could hear and see all that was happening outside.

Even Tommy would take advantage of my classroom. Always, he would sneak into the classroom, crawl next to me and spend all day with me.  

Tingtibi Town was right between my school and the house. It had a handful of shops (grocery, post office, wireless centre, canteen, and garment store). That’s all. We called it a town. For it’s a town. For us, at least.

After the school hours, that day, Tommy and I went around the town looking for balloons for Chunku. But ultimately, it’s the handgun that we bought, black one. Not balloons. Very cruel of me, though.

As we returned home that afternoon, my sister was anxiously waiting for us. More apparently, for her balloons. I took her in our house’s corner. As I placed the handgun in her tender hands, I tried convincing her playing with the handgun. I taught her how to operate and play with it - how to pull and release the trigger. And how I explained her it was more fun than playing with balloons.

But each blast from the gun only brought a fright and panic in her. She held the pistol, apathetically, and watched it for a while. She, meanwhile, was starting to look bored. Then, she asked for her balloons.

Eventually I confessed, “I used your money buying this gun.” Her eyes glazed over, away from the gun, away from me. One big tear spilled from her right eye, rolled down her cheek. She heaved for a while; then, oh, she cried loud, heartbreakingly.

This gave me a strange and sad feeling. Guilt and regrets engulfed me. I spread my arms around her shoulders, held her close, and assured her, “I will get your balloons tomorrow. I promise!”

The next day, after the school, I went back to the shop and requested the shopkeeper that I wanted to return the pistol and take balloons. And I took balloons not worth of 2, but 5 ngultrums.

I got a dozen of colourful balloons. I diligently folded those balloons in my geometric box and ran for home, all joyful. And Tommy came running after me, wagging his tail.

My sister was already at the gate, all excitedly waiting for me to bring her balloons. As soon as she saw me, she darted towards me, all in smiles. Because this time she knew I had brought her balloons. She opened her hands and asked, “My balloons!”

I made her wait until I changed my clothes. Then, I opened the geometric box and showed her balloons - all in different bright colours. On her face was the brightest smile I had ever seen. I can’t bring myself to put it right into words. It’s a beautiful glittering smile, grateful, and proud.

Before long, we strolled way down in the open ground on a valley. It’s a quiet valley and the pleasant breeze caressed the green grass as it blew over the valley. All attractive dragon flies were flitting around us. And the sun, sitting from the mountaintop, was shining with almost unwavering clarity.

It was in this magical valley that we played with our balloons. We pumped air into balloons and let them float in the air. And I could see my little sister, crying in joy - giggling and laughing. She looked like an absolute angel, with a kind of pure, sweet and transparent beauty.

When the balloons twirled down, slowly, we again punched them up. This time they soared - high, higher joining flying birds and white clouds. As we played, as the balloons disappeared in the blue sky, we discovered the place around us a different one. We had become happier. 

It has been already 20 years now. Today Chunku attends a management institute in Thimphu. Above all, I’m writing this story for her, to let her know what she did unto me two decades back. Oh, I’m crying as I’m writing this story. 

I’m adjusting to change

I’ve been trying hard. Indeed, trying real hard to update my blog. But I couldn’t.  I’m so disheartened – literally. This blog has remained barren for almost one month now. 

I open it now and then. And it feeds my mind. Frustrated. Sad. It, too, brings tears in my eyes. The truth is that one of my friends has borrowed my laptop for a few months. Coz he needs it more urgently than me.

And these days, I’ve been relentlessly trying hard writing stories in my office desktop computer. I always stay late evening after office hours desperately hoping to write stories. But I cannot.

Even on weekends, I run to my office hoping this time I can write. I stand in front of my PC, lost, like a scarecrow. Nothing comes out. Not even a sentence. No creativity being born in me, no words coming. Only a knot air of stark emptiness fills in my mind. Perhaps this post of insignificance says all about the emptiness that I have in me.

I turn sad. I become angry. But I don’t give up. Because I love writing and I can never part from it. Then, immediately I rush back home and frantically scribble on my note book. This, too, begets no result.

Oh, I cannot write stories anywhere else - except at my home, in my laptop. It’s so strange. Even to me, though. I’ve realized this today; yes, only right now. By the way, it talks a lot about me: my disposition; the type of person I am.

I was really a kind of person holding-onto-a-thing-and-never-let-it-go. I disliked change. Because it’s very difficult for me to let things go and readjust myself to the change. I never thought before that I was so used to writing at home and in my laptop. And writing elsewhere was difficult for me.

But my friend who has borrowed my PC has taught me a good lesson. That we live in a world of transition. That we change. That everything around us transit. Whatever we’re holding onto, we just have to let them go and learn to readjust. After all, growing up means letting go, isn’t it?

Right now, here, in front of my office desktop computer, I wrote this post. Yes, I’m adjusting to change now. I am learning to write blog stories from here. Ah, I feel good now!

Pic courtesy: google

Threat to all bloggers!

Dear blogger frens, 

You must have noticed that your blog stats have shot up immediately. It’s a good thing to see, isn't it? Hundreds have been visiting from a URL named: http://topblogstories.com/

By the way, do not click on that link if you’re in your office or your friends or beloved ones around. It takes you to somewhere very obscene and repugnant. Very embarrassing! 

More surprisingly, I learned from my friends that this site can transmit malware in the form of SPAM and robots circulating in Blogger and Wordpress networks. Be careful now! 

Now, I would like to request the Bhutan Telecom Ltd. to block this malicious site in Bhutan immediately to save the Bhutanese bloggers from embarrassment and spreading of malware in our computers.

For solutions and technical helps, refer this site: http://www.tecnoxps.com/2012/08/how-much-spam-visit-your-blog-some.html

Full moon in Tokyo

On the Vesak, last Friday night, in the Tokyo beach. I took this picture of full moon. Perfectly beautiful above the sea, rising from the city, way beyond the horizon. 

Two little sisters

The day was a Sunday. Last Sunday. It was a bright day, scorching sun outside. And I was walking down towards the town in Thimphu. And here, outside, at the footpath, I spotted these two little sisters reading and writing together. It was very lovely. 

Maid of Astolat

Today, one blog that I miss the most is http://maidofastolate.blogspot.com/. An undergraduate girl, this anonymous blogger used to write extensively on teenage life, unlikely romance and her untreated crush on classics literature. Like her, many good Bhutanese bloggers have stopped blogging (for better or worst - I hope for the better). And here, I share one of her stories that I loved so very much. Read it below:

Five-minute taxi ride

“Hey stop!!!' I screamed as usual hurrying past the gate of my house. Oh, it’s 8 am and the school assembly starts at 8.15. I was getting late. Darn!

My tego was still half-worn, my hair uncombed - half flying, half tied. I’ve my packed lunch bag in one hand and water bottle in other. And the bag on my back. It’s my usual routine though. I was a student of Yangchenphug HSS and always I would run to my school late. Everyday, I would wake up at around 7.30. And it would be 8 for me to wash up and get half-dressed for school.

Every morning, at 8, I’ve to run frantically and it’s not at all easy to find a taxi here. I lived in Jungshina, about 7 km north from Thimphu City. Sometimes, luck would fetch a cab for me right away. But every day was not Sunday, and my name would be already called out by my captain in the school and be marked absent.

However, today was another lucky day for me, for the car that I shouted at had stopped for me. “Thank god, at least…I won't be late today,” I sighed in a sheer relief.

I dashed into the backseat of the car and without looking at the driver, I shouted, “Auu, please reach me at YHS.” Meanwhile, I started shoving my hands through my tego’s sleeves and doing my hair - hoping that the car would zoom off immediately.

But the driver even didn’t start the car’s engine. I looked up at him, angrily. And I saw the driver turning back, looking straight at me, as if I had horns sprouting out of my head.

'Auu, be fast la. Please, I’m already late for school,' I pleaded, still trying on to get my tego on.

He showed me his regal face, and I wondered that how come a cabbie being so rude to his passenger. I just stopped for a moment and looked at him again – he is a good looking young man, well dressed - presumably, in his 20s. How come a taxi driver so good looking? I wondered again. But since I was in a rush, I didn’t dwell on it for long.

“Yes madam!” he obeyed my instruction, uttering it all in a mocking tone. He started driving. But a sort of an amusement flashed on his face before he said that.

I felt angry and disgusted at the driver as when I treated him well he acted sarcastic at me. Since I was getting late, I concentrated back on my tego, pulling it on properly and start folding its sleeves and wonju. Then, I started doing my hair. I pulled out the comb from my pencil bag and combed back my hair looking on the mirror to make sure it was being tied properly. I saw the driver's eyes on me, his expression amused. I ignored him, murmuring, “Irritating driver, huh.”

Then, I fetched out the lips gloss from my hand case and started pushing it against my lips. And I applied lotion on my hands and face. I could see the driver glaring at me in his rearview mirror. But, I purposely glared back at him, annoyed.

His face turned into a huge grin. Laughing, he asked me, in accented English, “Do you always get dressed in the cab?”

“I don't!” I replied him in a bitter tone. But I was still engrossed wearing myself.

“It looks like you are dressing up for me,” I remember him saying. I noticed his accented English and I must have wondered how a cabbie could speak English so well. But I ignored it as I was busy wearing my make-ups and only worrying about getting late. You would hardly meet a cabbie who speaks so good English in Thimphu, but jeez, this man had British accent. 

I replied him, “It’s just ah...small modifications”. Somehow that made him laugh loud, throwing his head back. I threw a dagger at him with my eyes.

“Alright, alright, I give up,” he said raising his hands as if in defeat though his smirk said otherwise. I arranged my books in my bag. He continued starting at me in the rearview mirror in a grin expression.

“Hey, do you mind driving faster, I am getting late,” I remember ordering him.

“Laso la madam!” he mocked at me, turning back and staring at me. I ignored him. 

I reached my school gate. All done by then- I put in my water bottle and arranged my bag and did little tidying up with my wonju and tego, still ignoring the driver. My hair perfectly tied. My tego neatly folded, wonju perfectly made. I looked like a typical good school girl. The driver looked at me and smiled broad, appreciatively though.

Annoyed, I hit at him, “What?”

He just laughed and said, “Nothing Madam.” I glared at him.

The school students were still walking towards school. And my friends were waiting for me on the footpath. Thank god, I was not late, I sighed. The anger left me, instantly. Though the driver has been intrusive and annoying, he reached me school safe and on time.

I asked him the fare, “How much?”

He stared at me, his eyeballs rolled for a while and replied me, “Tell you what, it is free, you don't have to pay.”

I didn’t expect that. Since I didn’t like him and I didn't want to remain in debt to this rude man, I shouted at him, “No, take this money.” I threw Nu 40 on his lap.

He simply smiled and said, “You’re one stubborn lady, aren't you?” And he continued, “I bet your teachers are having tough time keeping you under control.”

My anger resurfaced. “Mind your own business,” I said and came out, slamming his car door.

His only reaction was a loud laugh. 

As I walked towards my friends, how I wanted to tell them what a horrible driver I met that morning. But as I soon as I reached them, they waved and cried at me, “Who is that hot guy who just dropped you here?” 

Puzzled, I looked back and to my surprise, it’s not a taxi. Err…I had climbed into a private car. I had mistaken it for a taxi and took a ride and treated him very rude. I felt so embarrassed and to think, I paid him. As I looked back at him, realizing my mistake and blushing, he laughed glaring at me. The Nu 40 (that I threw on his lap) tugged in his fingers he saluted at me and drove past me back to the town.

Today I try remembering him, but I cannot. Even, I don’t remember his face. I’ve no idea of his working address, and his name. I don't think anyone be so kind to drop a crazy school girl at her school. I don’t think that anyone would tolerate my behavior and rude words like the way he did.  By the way, I tried looking for him, at least, to beg from him forgiveness and to thank him. And I looked at the drivers of all cars I came across, thinking he would be the one, but I never found him. But I know that I’ll always remember him – he stays deep in my heart. However, this writing article is one way to remember him, to thank him for his generosity. Since then, I’ve never mistaken a private car for taxi. But how I wish I’d mistake it again and again. Perhaps I would meet him.

Setting the right precedent?

The picture below I took during the DPT's first convention meeting at YDF, Thimphu on April 28, 2013. More than a hundred of cars (mostly the big ones) of DPT members and supporters were parked and lined up from the Swimming pool until Changangkha.

The other day, this man, Tshering Tobgay, the former Opposition Leader, handed over his official vehicle. He justified that the country’s economic was in a bad shape and buying a new set of cars for the next elected Prime Minister, Cabinet Ministers, the Speaker, the Chairman of the National Council, and the Opposition Leader would cost our government huge.  

And now, we see a huge outcry from the DPT supporters and the general public about it. Is it about setting the right precedent for our future policymakers? Does this mean “misuse of political authority” on DPT government’s part? Or is it a political game as our country nears the next elections?

Only time will tell.

Note: Second photo: BBS.

On walking

I’ve been waiting since a very long hour. Also, I was praying - earnestly though - this rain to stop. So that I’d take a walk in my neighborhood. It’s only in the early evening that the downpour was done. The grey clouds were pulled back on the mountaintops. And Thimphu valley appeared starkly beautiful, clear, fresh - after the rain.

I slipped on my fuzzy slippers, and instantaneously ventured out on a walk. As I walked, I was greeted by the brilliant green leaves of the trees, raindrops sprinkling on them. The flowers, on both sides of the footpath I walked, were blooming to their fullest. Summer was abundant, everywhere. Oh, how much I admired it! 

A little over a handful minutes of walking, I reached a tiny hamlet, perched on a gorgeous hill. A few huts, scattered over the hill, honorably owned the hill. Each hut was all surrounded by small gardens of potato and maize. It’s a peaceful place, even dogs here didn’t bark at you. The peasants were gracefully weeding and digging their gardens for the new cultivation.

I came across a middle-aged woman. Seated on a wooden tool, at her courtyard, she was reading a non-formal education textbook. I smiled at her. She looked me full in the face and smiled back, shy. And she continued reading, keenly. Deep inside her shy smile, I saw her insatiable determination to learn, read and write. Yes, even at this old age.    

I was genuinely humbled by this village, by its simplicity and beauty. Immediately, I removed my slippers. And I walked barefoot on the footpath, on soil that was slightly muddied by the rain. Ah, I loved this feeling of my feet on soil. It felt so good, so natural. It’s been so long that I didn’t walk barefoot. Like this.  

Continuing the walk, I came across a bunch of young nuns stuffing themselves on ice creams. As soon as they saw me, they hid their ice creams. “Taking ice creams la?” I asked them just out of courtesy. They giggled and gave out a small laugh, shy - their eyes all glittering. Then, I met a group of boys playing soccer on an open ground. I joined them and played this beautiful game - sweating, laughing. So much joy and fun.

I returned home, feeling elated and deep at peace. This simple solitude walk and noticing minute things taught me the power of opening my eyes and it fed my soul. Simple thing has the capacity to work magic. Only if you let it happen. 

Note: I took these pictures on my phone.