Mystery of my favourite poem

When I was in my high school, I came across this famous and magical poem for the first time. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shallot”. And ever since, it had become my favourite poem, indefinitely. Ever so gracefully, it remained on my mind, too gracefully though.

Still I do remember those days, of my classroom where I used to sit on my desk, so attentive, in excited and radiant smile, reciting the poem. If I’m not wrong, this is the first time I fell in love with English literature and of course started liking my English teacher.

This is one poem that I held dear, and its lines, I knew by heart. Again and again I would read the poem. To put it precisely, it’s crafted in perfect words and emulates overpoweringly breathtaking images that one would never forget in life.

And the way Tennyson starts out the poem is simply splendid. I can’t help myself from pulling out those starting lines and putting down here,

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

The poet portrays the scenes so magically. And it made my heart lurch, all the more. This is the only poem that I read not for the exams, but out of the pleasure of words. In fact, that’s the time I realized the power of words, what the black and white letters can be.

Above all, it’s the protagonist of the poem that had absolutely hypnotized me. The Lady of Shalott. She is described as an absolute angel, “lovely face”, “fairy”, pure, and beauty who “weaves by night and day/A magic web with colours gay” in a four-towered castle. She is like…ah as if I had met the love of my life, my soul mate. The more I read it, the deeper I fell in love.

Moreover, I felt hugely heartened when I had the opportunity to learn the poem once more when I joined Sherubtse College in 2005. We read the nineteen century literature and we analyzed this poem too. However, the analysis shocked me; left me shaken.

The poem suddenly turned dark. The Lady of Shalott is restricted and imprisoned in the tower under a terrible curse. Subjugated and lonely, she is considered as an invisible object, ghostly. Second half of the poem becomes bloody and mournful. The Lady is doomed for going against the norm. She cries. She dies.

I couldn’t believe that the love of my heart, the Lady’s life is one long unspoken sadness and accursed. It’s unthinkable; it penetrated me deeply. I couldn’t take it. It aroused such sorrow and grief of the loss of the Lady that I almost burst into tears in the classroom. I was angry at the poet, I started hating my lecturer, and I grew disinterested in learning literature.

After almost a decade, today, I read the poem once more. To tell you…it was a decade of my life filled with difficult obstacles and decisions, unthinkable loss and fear, and countless tears and anxiety. But it was also a decade of humbling realizations and experiences – of love, of joy, of emotional growth, of mental maturity, of understanding the true essence of life.

As I am already halfway to this bumpy ride of life; and today, as I read the poem, I have come to understand it. Its true essence, its beauty, its purpose and the love and grace in the poem. This world, this human life is all temporary. Vulnerability figures large all time, and that falling apart happens continually. Accept it or not, all is not fair or perfect in this world, similarly this favourite poem of mine.

I am excited here that I may understand the poem further as I grow older, in my old age. Learning never ends, and this poem never stops giving me new lessons. “The Lady of Shalott” is a poem for lifetime.

Photo courtesy: google

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You are the apple of my eye!!!

And of course litchi to my mouth!

He-he...spotted this little boy on my way to Takshang on the last Zhabdrung Kuchoe. Have a wonderful day, dear readers! 

The joy of planting a tree

The tree above? 

Believe it or not, this is the tree that I had planted as a student of Norbuling Primary School in Gelephu. It was June 2 in 1995. I was very happy to see my plant growing so strong and tall during my visit to the school last February. It made me dizzy with excessive pride.

You know what? I felt so excited that I spent my entire afternoon, beneath it, under its shade. I hugged it, ran around it, climbed on it, held its branches, and felt and smelt its leaves. More excitingly, I remembered my childhood days, a part of my life, in this school.  

The Joy that only a teacher knows

It is the hardest month of my life. This year’s April. To tell you, I’ve initiated and been giving art lesson in my office for 17 children, mostly underprivileged ones. Every day, from Monday to Friday, after school hours, I teach them drawing, art, painting and also designing craft items.    

I’m not a teacher, by the way. As a supporting staff, my job responsibilities are to assist my managers in the office administrative works and projects carried out by my office. However, I conduct this art class (with support from my office management) to help children to inculcate in them skills, creativity, confidence and good values through art lesson.

Besides my daily office works, I’ve to find out my own time to prepare art lesson. The class starts from 4 pm to 5 pm. After two weeks of teaching, I felt the actual demands of work. It was very tiring, stressful for me. Every evening, after the class, my legs and back ached, and my throat pained. Also, I had to forego all my leisure time and comfort. 

Moreover, most of my students were slow in learning. A few didn’t understand anything at all. Others reacted fast, but never hit on the point. So they always put me in a foul mood. I felt muddled-headed, and gradually I started losing my patient. I scolded them too.

At one point, I wanted to stop the class, but something dragged me on. I don’t know what it is. So today, it has been exactly a month that I’m giving the class. And the class will continue till this year’s end.        

Yesterday afternoon, I received handmade cards from my students. It shocked me, as it was unusual for me to receive cards on teacher’s day. Also, they wished me, “Happy Teacher’s Day!” The way they said it, the way they emphasized it, melted my heart. I looked at my students; they all stood in beautiful smile, grateful and proud.

  

I took a moment, and ran my eyes up and down the cards. And to my own amazement, tears welled up in my eyes. Maybe that’s the nicest thing ever happened to me in the recent years. It is, to put it more precisely.   

On that day, I asked all my students to design cards for their favorite teachers in their schools. It is to honour them on teacher’s day. The cards also contain special messages for their teachers. It took us more than two hours to complete making the cards.  

This is the pride of a man who teaches art lesson one hour a day. So you just can’t imagine the pride and achievements of those teachers who teach their entire life.

Let’s salute all our teachers!

New Bhutanese writers

I came across a handful of books by the Bhutanese at the Book Fair in Bajothang. I was very much surprised. Because that I’ve not heard of and read before about these books and authors. But those books are written and published by our fellow-Bhutanese, and they are there in the market for sale. More surprisingly, most of the writers are very young teachers. I’m very happy for them and have bought some of the books as personal copies. The books are: 

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"An unhurried sense of time is in itself a form of wealth."

                                                      - Bonnie Friedman

Creating a little more space

Not long ago, I wrote here about how thrilled I was to visit my friend Sonam’s apple orchard at Khasadrapchu to pluck apples there. Last Saturday, again, I visited this beautiful orchard along with my friends Pema and Sonam. This time, it’s not to pluck apples, but to nurture the orchard.

The entire noon, we weeded the orchard, and added manure and water to the plants. Like a group of peasants, we toiled in the orchard, digging and weeding. Our limbs were mud-stained; our faces profusely streaming with sweats.

Meanwhile, we whistled, in a rustic way, commanding the wind to bring us fresh air. As expected, a strong current of wind gusted around the valley. Magic works, ah, it really does! The apple plants started to bend and twist as if they were dancing to the song of the wind. As they danced, the flower petals of the plants were blown away in the air, over the valley. The bees, sucking nectars, were also brushed away. It all appeared to me so truly surreal.

Beneath a handsome tree, we lied down, talking and observing the loveliness of the countryside. We admired the lone farm road that climbs way up into a tiny settlement on mountaintop. We listened to the mysterious sound of the wind too; keenly observing its flow. We felt it deep inside, breathed it deeper. It’s very peaceful.   

We continued working. We continued talking. It’s all about our lives, our little aspirations, our ideologies, our beloved ones and families, and not so much about our works. After a while, we felt sublime, peaceful.  

However, the beauty is not that I could spend my weekend away from Thimphu, but it’s this small moment of working and sitting together with my friends in such a lovely place. I’m happy that I’m creating a little more space for them, my soul friends.

My little world, my writing

I feel very lucky to have found a love of writing. Here, on my blog. Quite surprisingly, this writing has become part of me, my daily life. As I spend a huge block of my time on writing here, almost everyday.

But I’m one person who often writes about my own little life - my world, activities, philosophies, hopes, and dreams. Because I feel that all other things are being written amply by pens far mightier than mine.

I absolutely love to write about these itsy-bitsy activities of my life. They are so little, tiny, mundane, small, and naïve. Yet, they are part of me. All this together make me, this very self.   

I live a simple life with a handful of friends. And what I’ve owned and done in my life is little. I know that no one else would ever write my story. So I write it myself, with thanks, as ever to e-blog.  

My stories, blog posts, are mostly about my home, my heart, my family and friends, my village, writing, good books I read, walks, photography, and nature. For, they are what I focus on the most in my life. For, they are my creative muse too.

And each post I write, there’s still more to write. That’s the indisposition of my little world, my writing. Insatiable. Never-ending. Writing here helps me to explore what life is all about, and I’m always delighted in the discovery and contentment.

So much wrong happen each day. But writing is transformative, peaceful. As I sit for a small moment thinking and writing, it’s like I put pause from the routine and busyness of my life. Sometimes, I put down my feelings and thoughts to get answer in my writing. 

  

Above all, I write to remember, and to be remembered. Through writing, I intend to relive each moment of my life on these pages, briefly, though it’s only about small things.

It’s through this blog that I hope to live on for a few generations after I die. When my friends, family members and readers go through this blog, I live on. When they read my stories of the memories I’ve made, I live on. When they remember my name, I live on.

I am not sure that I could ever write in the future. I don’t know. I don’t know what pages of my life would unfurl for me. I don’t know, at all. But I know this…that I am writing here!