I asked for another shot of Vodka, another double and then another. The day was what I would call today, “D-Day.” It was the day which gave me the freedom to finally be the real me. It was a day I had waited for all the while. A set of mixed feelings had overcome me, I was happy but I was sad as well.
My best friend called it “a state of confusion which gave me happiness.” True were her words. What I feared the most was that it happened when I wasn’t ready at all. It just came suddenly and one signature on the paper from me was gonna decide it all.
I sat there, with the paper infront of me and a pen in my hand, looking out my window, wondering if should sign it or not. I must have read it over and over again, looking for some flaws so that I could send it back, so that I would have more time to think about it. But everything was perfect, what ever was required was there, the only thing missing was my signature.
I started to think about the very first time we got into a relationship. Were we ever in love? I wonder. No we were never; only circumstances bonded us to this life time commitment which was soon to be over. We were never happy together? We were not the same? The only thing that kept us together for three years was the bond. Bondage we never really approved from our hearts.
We were miserable in this bondage, and it wasn’t fair on him to force himself to be in this bondage and neither was it for me. I always thought a fine person like him deserved much more. I felt guilty keeping him tied to a relationship which had no future.
I always thought we could be friends for the future of the one person we both loved so much. But I was wrong; we were just screwing up each other’s lives. At that moment, going our own ways would have made me the happiest. I wished for everything to end, to have my own freedom, to have happiness in my life without having to associate with him at all.
The first sight of the paper made me truly smile after three years. I was happy that it had come to me finally. But then at the same time, a sudden fear made me realize I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to face this world alone as a single mother. I didn’t want my son to grow up saying, “my parents don’t live together anymore.” I didn’t want my son to grow up in a single mother’s home.
I feared that my son would grow up to become an angry teenager, hating his parents for doing this to him. I feared that my son might suffer just because the parents wanted to be happy.
But then on the other hand, I look at how unhappy we both have been. I see myself crying everyday, wishing life turned out right for me. I see a person with a lot of self respect losing it because he got himself into a mess with me. I could see my son growing up in a very unhealthy atmosphere at home.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and tell myself that if I don’t do this today, there will be three people who will be unhappy for a lifetime. And if I do sign it, things will always take its shape into brining all three of us a better future if not a better present.
I finally sign it. An end to another chapter of my life and a beginning to yet another completely new chapter
Wednesday 22 December 2010
Losing parts of myself
A part of me wants to write and a part of me wants to draw. There is a part of me who wants to study environment and another who wants to be an anthropologist. Yet there is another part of me who wants to travel and at the same time a part who wants to remain just where I am.
There is a part of me who wants to love and there is a part of me who wants to be loved. But there is a larger part of me who wants to break free, live life on my own principles and grounds. To put myself into all parts will take a larger part of me.
While trying to find happiness in myself by keeping other’s happy, I have lost the biggest part of me. My whole life has been fragmented into these small parts, confusing me every new day. What I am today is a reflection of the broken part of me.
I have fallen and never once risen to put bits and pieces of myself together again. “I will never be the same, I will never find the person within me that I have lost,” I often told my friends.
Yes, I do believe there is yet a whole life ahead of me and yes, I do believe things won’t be the same forever. Destiny and fate, yes, I do believe in them as well. “After every stormy day there is sunshine.” Indeed!
But what I don’t understand is how long the sun will take to shine on me. I have often tried to fix the broken parts of my life. I really did, believe me! While trying to fix the broken parts, somehow, I always couldn’t find a few parts of me who used to be determined, who used to be in love with life and the part that used to sing the joys of life. Without these parts I will never be me.
The missing parts of me which I cant seem to find makes me feel different in my own skin.
Years have gone by and I have lost many parts of me as I journeyed through life. If only I took care of the parts I lost, I would still be me!
There is a part of me who wants to love and there is a part of me who wants to be loved. But there is a larger part of me who wants to break free, live life on my own principles and grounds. To put myself into all parts will take a larger part of me.
While trying to find happiness in myself by keeping other’s happy, I have lost the biggest part of me. My whole life has been fragmented into these small parts, confusing me every new day. What I am today is a reflection of the broken part of me.
I have fallen and never once risen to put bits and pieces of myself together again. “I will never be the same, I will never find the person within me that I have lost,” I often told my friends.
Yes, I do believe there is yet a whole life ahead of me and yes, I do believe things won’t be the same forever. Destiny and fate, yes, I do believe in them as well. “After every stormy day there is sunshine.” Indeed!
But what I don’t understand is how long the sun will take to shine on me. I have often tried to fix the broken parts of my life. I really did, believe me! While trying to fix the broken parts, somehow, I always couldn’t find a few parts of me who used to be determined, who used to be in love with life and the part that used to sing the joys of life. Without these parts I will never be me.
The missing parts of me which I cant seem to find makes me feel different in my own skin.
Years have gone by and I have lost many parts of me as I journeyed through life. If only I took care of the parts I lost, I would still be me!
My Mother's Diary
This is an article send by this 18 year old for the schoolscape page in Bhutan Times...its a marvelous piece and taught me a lotta stuff in life.
When I was younger, I could never understand why my parents slept in separate rooms. They barely spoke to each other and never went out together. Unlike other parents they never fought but mom used to cry alone in her room most of the time. I could never figure out what was wrong between them.
When I was nine years old, mom gave me her diary, I remember she said, “Read this and you will know the real me.” I never really thought about reading it for a long time as I used to always be busy with school.
A week after mom gave me her diary, mom died. Some said she killed herself, some said she was very ill and some said god loved her so he called her to him.
I was never really attached to mom; she never had time for me. She was always busy with her friends and her work. I would have missed dad more than mom. But I knew mom loved me a lot, she never showed it but then she really did love me. I remember mom used to come home late and I would pretend to be asleep. She would kiss me and say ‘I love you,’ but some how I could never understand why she didn’t show it.
After mom died, dad and I came here to the States, so far away from home. Far away from the place I loved. When I was leaving, I remember my grand parents told me that mom was a great person, with a good heart and someone who always thought and gave up a lot in life for me. I couldn’t believe it; I thought she never really cared.
A few months after dad and I reached our present home, I started to miss mom. I took out her diary and started to read it. I was shocked that instead of writing “Dear Diary,” she had written “Dear Yudruk.” I had no idea that she had dedicated her diary to me.
As I went through her diary, I realized that I had not known mom at all. She was a completely different person. Back home in Bhutan, I remember, mom used to tell me that the closest thing to her heart was her diary. When I was done reading her diary, I got the answers to all my questions.
Mom had married dad just to get me into this world. She was never in love with him and dad wasn’t as well. I was an accident which changed my parents’ lives into a mess. But I always thank them for never letting me know what they had to go through just to bring me into this world.
Mom sacrificed a lot for me; she gave up her studies, her glamorous life and her goals which she had been working on all her life, just for me.
Mom’s diary described her as someone who always knew what she wanted, someone who was smart and the charm of the family. She thought a lot about the others and always stood up for the truth. Mom was really beautiful, her eyes always said a lot about her and what she wanted to express. She had very expressive eyes.
A few months ago, we got a visitor from Bhutan who went to college with my parents. He told me that my mom was someone special, she was someone no one could dislike and he told me that even after mom is gone, people still look up to her as a great person.
When I asked dad about mom, he told me she was unhappy because she was married to him and he never wanted to make the effort to make their relationship work. He had asked her for a divorce but she refused because she didn’t want me to grow up in a family where the parents were divorced. He said mom was a really strong person.
I hated myself for thinking mom never had time for me. Today I am a very independent 18 years old, I read a lot and I already have my goals set for the future. I live for the moment; my past and my future do not worry me much. I am a young man with his own principles and I respect humanity.
I intend to go back to Bhutan and become a writer, I want to explore Bhutan. I believe in falling in love with just one person and to take life as it comes. I drink a lot of milk I the morning and never miss me meal. I go to bed by 10 in week days and party in the weekends. I smoke and I drink but do not do drugs. I have a wide circle of friends but I keep a few close ones.
My philosophy in life is, “I do not think of the past, it will never come into my life again. I do not worry about the future, who knows if there shall be one. I live for the present because this is all that I have got.” I have become exactly the person mom has always wanted me to be. She had made a list for me and my greatest achievement in life is being the person mom wanted me to be in my last teenage years. I shall be content with life when I have become the person that she wanted me to be till I took my last breath.
It is ironic, when you have fulfilled your mother’s last wishes, only to find out that she isn’t there with you to kiss you and say, “I am proud of you my son.” Mom I love you and I am proud of you.
Thank you for giving me a life and guiding me to become a person who is proud and in love with his life. If you were still alive, no man would have deserved you, not even dad. You would have been too good to be true.
Sonam Yudruk Tenzing
When I was younger, I could never understand why my parents slept in separate rooms. They barely spoke to each other and never went out together. Unlike other parents they never fought but mom used to cry alone in her room most of the time. I could never figure out what was wrong between them.
When I was nine years old, mom gave me her diary, I remember she said, “Read this and you will know the real me.” I never really thought about reading it for a long time as I used to always be busy with school.
A week after mom gave me her diary, mom died. Some said she killed herself, some said she was very ill and some said god loved her so he called her to him.
I was never really attached to mom; she never had time for me. She was always busy with her friends and her work. I would have missed dad more than mom. But I knew mom loved me a lot, she never showed it but then she really did love me. I remember mom used to come home late and I would pretend to be asleep. She would kiss me and say ‘I love you,’ but some how I could never understand why she didn’t show it.
After mom died, dad and I came here to the States, so far away from home. Far away from the place I loved. When I was leaving, I remember my grand parents told me that mom was a great person, with a good heart and someone who always thought and gave up a lot in life for me. I couldn’t believe it; I thought she never really cared.
A few months after dad and I reached our present home, I started to miss mom. I took out her diary and started to read it. I was shocked that instead of writing “Dear Diary,” she had written “Dear Yudruk.” I had no idea that she had dedicated her diary to me.
As I went through her diary, I realized that I had not known mom at all. She was a completely different person. Back home in Bhutan, I remember, mom used to tell me that the closest thing to her heart was her diary. When I was done reading her diary, I got the answers to all my questions.
Mom had married dad just to get me into this world. She was never in love with him and dad wasn’t as well. I was an accident which changed my parents’ lives into a mess. But I always thank them for never letting me know what they had to go through just to bring me into this world.
Mom sacrificed a lot for me; she gave up her studies, her glamorous life and her goals which she had been working on all her life, just for me.
Mom’s diary described her as someone who always knew what she wanted, someone who was smart and the charm of the family. She thought a lot about the others and always stood up for the truth. Mom was really beautiful, her eyes always said a lot about her and what she wanted to express. She had very expressive eyes.
A few months ago, we got a visitor from Bhutan who went to college with my parents. He told me that my mom was someone special, she was someone no one could dislike and he told me that even after mom is gone, people still look up to her as a great person.
When I asked dad about mom, he told me she was unhappy because she was married to him and he never wanted to make the effort to make their relationship work. He had asked her for a divorce but she refused because she didn’t want me to grow up in a family where the parents were divorced. He said mom was a really strong person.
I hated myself for thinking mom never had time for me. Today I am a very independent 18 years old, I read a lot and I already have my goals set for the future. I live for the moment; my past and my future do not worry me much. I am a young man with his own principles and I respect humanity.
I intend to go back to Bhutan and become a writer, I want to explore Bhutan. I believe in falling in love with just one person and to take life as it comes. I drink a lot of milk I the morning and never miss me meal. I go to bed by 10 in week days and party in the weekends. I smoke and I drink but do not do drugs. I have a wide circle of friends but I keep a few close ones.
My philosophy in life is, “I do not think of the past, it will never come into my life again. I do not worry about the future, who knows if there shall be one. I live for the present because this is all that I have got.” I have become exactly the person mom has always wanted me to be. She had made a list for me and my greatest achievement in life is being the person mom wanted me to be in my last teenage years. I shall be content with life when I have become the person that she wanted me to be till I took my last breath.
It is ironic, when you have fulfilled your mother’s last wishes, only to find out that she isn’t there with you to kiss you and say, “I am proud of you my son.” Mom I love you and I am proud of you.
Thank you for giving me a life and guiding me to become a person who is proud and in love with his life. If you were still alive, no man would have deserved you, not even dad. You would have been too good to be true.
Sonam Yudruk Tenzing
Over The Years
I was just casually talking to a friend of mine from high school on this article on “Sexual Revolution” I will be writing for the Bhutan Now Magazine (which must be forgotten by most people after its first and only issue).
Nevertheless, we landed up talking about how things have changed over the years.
“Look at us,” was the justification to what our conversation was about.
True, “look at us,” just a few years ago, this us, were a bunch of teenagers only worried about how to miss school the next day or what western wear would be best suited to watch a basketball game at the swimming pool.
And “look at us,” today, in kira, sitting at Thimphu’s fine Art Café, sipping on coffee with our very own earned money and talking about work.
This was not us a few years ago.
A few years ago, we will be sitting in one of Hong Kong market’s shady restaurant, sipping on less milk- more water coffee and talking about boys. (Not that we don’t talk about boys anymore) This us would clean the house, help our mothers cook, help dad with gardening, wash the family car and be a good girl all week long just to go out dancing on Saturday at All Stars.
And today, we don’t even mention All Stars; it is rather embarrassing to even talk about it just randomly.
Why?
Because, today there are new discos to go to, with better music and more decent crowd. Like I was telling my friend, All Stars was the place why we learnt to groom ourselves, dress properly and learnt to be the in-thing in town.
Sitting outside the Zone, watching teenagers dressed in the latest trends often reminds me of myself when I was also a teenager. Ofcourse, the skirts have become shorter and the tops a lot smaller.
Despite my age, I too try to be still in fashion and I have often dressed myself in the shortest of skirts and smallest of tops. Somehow, this teen fashion is only meant for teens as they look far better than I do.
We have come a long way now, we both agree on it.
It’s been a while, since we have got dressed before a week to the big day. It’s been a while since we have got butterfly in our stomach just looking at Mr. Happening pass by. It’s been a while since we have been grounded by our parents.
At the age of 26, I know it’s not healthy to feel so old. “Life begins at 40,” we tell each other. Yeap, it sure does, so if life actually begins at 40, we still have 16 more years to feel young.
Once another high school friend came and asked me if it’s normal to find a girl six years younger to him hot. I was like, “dude I have my eyes on my nephew’s friends, it sure is normal.” So I look at my life before and now, I was once a girl with dreams, a girl with long hair ( I don’t know if this was necessary), a girl with a family, a girl without a driver’s license, a girl without a job and most of all just a girl.
Today I am someone who has fulfilled her dreams (well a larger part of it), a girl a driver’s license and a car, a girl with a job and a girl who has become a woman.
From a little girl who played in the dust, I have become a woman who doesnot play at all. I have achieved what I have wanted and I have lost what I have wanted to keep.
I have grown physically as well as mentally, become a woman from a girl. And yet there are times, when I am still this little girl my father once used to know, the little girl who loves to play in the rain.
The little girl who plays boxing with her three year old son and the little girl who still cries when her mother screams at her.
Nevertheless, we landed up talking about how things have changed over the years.
“Look at us,” was the justification to what our conversation was about.
True, “look at us,” just a few years ago, this us, were a bunch of teenagers only worried about how to miss school the next day or what western wear would be best suited to watch a basketball game at the swimming pool.
And “look at us,” today, in kira, sitting at Thimphu’s fine Art Café, sipping on coffee with our very own earned money and talking about work.
This was not us a few years ago.
A few years ago, we will be sitting in one of Hong Kong market’s shady restaurant, sipping on less milk- more water coffee and talking about boys. (Not that we don’t talk about boys anymore) This us would clean the house, help our mothers cook, help dad with gardening, wash the family car and be a good girl all week long just to go out dancing on Saturday at All Stars.
And today, we don’t even mention All Stars; it is rather embarrassing to even talk about it just randomly.
Why?
Because, today there are new discos to go to, with better music and more decent crowd. Like I was telling my friend, All Stars was the place why we learnt to groom ourselves, dress properly and learnt to be the in-thing in town.
Sitting outside the Zone, watching teenagers dressed in the latest trends often reminds me of myself when I was also a teenager. Ofcourse, the skirts have become shorter and the tops a lot smaller.
Despite my age, I too try to be still in fashion and I have often dressed myself in the shortest of skirts and smallest of tops. Somehow, this teen fashion is only meant for teens as they look far better than I do.
We have come a long way now, we both agree on it.
It’s been a while, since we have got dressed before a week to the big day. It’s been a while since we have got butterfly in our stomach just looking at Mr. Happening pass by. It’s been a while since we have been grounded by our parents.
At the age of 26, I know it’s not healthy to feel so old. “Life begins at 40,” we tell each other. Yeap, it sure does, so if life actually begins at 40, we still have 16 more years to feel young.
Once another high school friend came and asked me if it’s normal to find a girl six years younger to him hot. I was like, “dude I have my eyes on my nephew’s friends, it sure is normal.” So I look at my life before and now, I was once a girl with dreams, a girl with long hair ( I don’t know if this was necessary), a girl with a family, a girl without a driver’s license, a girl without a job and most of all just a girl.
Today I am someone who has fulfilled her dreams (well a larger part of it), a girl a driver’s license and a car, a girl with a job and a girl who has become a woman.
From a little girl who played in the dust, I have become a woman who doesnot play at all. I have achieved what I have wanted and I have lost what I have wanted to keep.
I have grown physically as well as mentally, become a woman from a girl. And yet there are times, when I am still this little girl my father once used to know, the little girl who loves to play in the rain.
The little girl who plays boxing with her three year old son and the little girl who still cries when her mother screams at her.
A Tale of a Mother and Daughter
Every moment of happiness or sadness is complimented by one person, the person can be a family member or a friend or just a passer by, a complete stranger.
I was on a trip to Singye Dzong (three days walk in the middle of no where) with my dad, I was taking a break from work but then at the same time I was looking for stories to take back home.
Well, yes I did find a lot of stories to write on along the way, on the second last day of my trip we were at Raemoteng, located on the north eastern side of Singye Dzong.
Raemoteng is the summer home for the nomadic yak herders, although there is settlement there, the place is occupied only for about a month or two (guess summer is short for people living there).
A s I was taking a walk around the place, looking for something interesting to write about, I came across an empty house, a small house. One of the yak herders started to tell me a true story that happened a few years ago, two years ago to be precise.
“An old blind lady and her daughter lived in this house; they didn’t have any yaks to herd that year so they decided to stay back while all of us left. A few days later, the daughter had got sick and died. When we came back after three weeks, there was no sign of the mother as well as the daughter.
So we went to check on them, the old lady was sitting next to her daughter’s dead body, which had started to smell. She looked helpless and weak; she would have starved to death if we had decided to stay back any longer. Later the daughter’s dead body was chopped into small pieces and thrown to seven corners of Singye Dzong,” he narrated the story to me.
I seriously didn’t know what to say, tears just started to roll down my cheeks. I was told that later the old lady was adopted by another yak herder family. Only the old lady knows what she actually went through for three weeks. Her dead daughter next to her, blind and helpless to do anything, nothing could get worse than being this helpless.
I wondered what this old lady might have gone through, all alone with her only daughter’s dead body next to her, with no food to eat and with no one around in the middle of no where. And yet she managed to survive, I was also told that she is still strong after all that she had to go through.
I was on a trip to Singye Dzong (three days walk in the middle of no where) with my dad, I was taking a break from work but then at the same time I was looking for stories to take back home.
Well, yes I did find a lot of stories to write on along the way, on the second last day of my trip we were at Raemoteng, located on the north eastern side of Singye Dzong.
Raemoteng is the summer home for the nomadic yak herders, although there is settlement there, the place is occupied only for about a month or two (guess summer is short for people living there).
A s I was taking a walk around the place, looking for something interesting to write about, I came across an empty house, a small house. One of the yak herders started to tell me a true story that happened a few years ago, two years ago to be precise.
“An old blind lady and her daughter lived in this house; they didn’t have any yaks to herd that year so they decided to stay back while all of us left. A few days later, the daughter had got sick and died. When we came back after three weeks, there was no sign of the mother as well as the daughter.
So we went to check on them, the old lady was sitting next to her daughter’s dead body, which had started to smell. She looked helpless and weak; she would have starved to death if we had decided to stay back any longer. Later the daughter’s dead body was chopped into small pieces and thrown to seven corners of Singye Dzong,” he narrated the story to me.
I seriously didn’t know what to say, tears just started to roll down my cheeks. I was told that later the old lady was adopted by another yak herder family. Only the old lady knows what she actually went through for three weeks. Her dead daughter next to her, blind and helpless to do anything, nothing could get worse than being this helpless.
I wondered what this old lady might have gone through, all alone with her only daughter’s dead body next to her, with no food to eat and with no one around in the middle of no where. And yet she managed to survive, I was also told that she is still strong after all that she had to go through.
Painfull Success
I stare at the keyboard, my fingers motion less, I stare at the screen, and it’s been blank for the last one hour. Where is the ponder which comes to me every night and gives me the words to write? (Hey it rhymes ha-ha) It surely seems to have disappeared today.
My note pad lies on my desk, containing one of the finest interviews I took and my pen which normally strikes off information used for my article has remained idle tonight.
I curse the journalistic ethic of putting the punch line as the lead, getting the lead right needs a lot of brainstorming. Somehow I always managed but tonight something is not right, I just can’t get the lead right.
Am I missing the passion or is it the angered air because of some punks creating a scene outside my apartment? Don’t be distracted, concentrate I tell myself. Oh these words tonight just aren’t going anywhere, definitely not to the stories’ folder tomorrow morning.
After an hour of thinking, re-writing, cursing, smoking innumerous cigarettes, sending a few SMS, looking at some pictures, I get a 55 word lead typed. Balls! A lead has to be about 45 words, I think again, re-write, smoke again (no SMS this time) and finally get a lead of 40 words. Perfect!
The flow is on, my fingers busy, my idle pen striking off the information used, smiling, there is no stopping me now. Hell! Wait! I cannot figure out a word, damn, I should have asked the interviewee to slow down or I should have written it a bit slowly. I read the sentence over and over, trying to get the word. Damn! How I wish I could just presume it and go on. I figure it out after a while, voila, I get back with the flow.
What’s next? A quote doesnot make sense at all, I pick up my phone and try to call the interviewee to confirm it, and he isn’t answering. I try again, and again and again.
No answer! I rise from my chair, pace the floor to and fro, I stop, and pace again, I stop and kick a chair. I hit my darn toe. The ring of my phone doesnot let me curse the pain. I pick it up, great! I have the quote now.
I hop back to the keyboard and begin to type the last paragraph and get done with my article, finally! Amazing how pain can unstick the words stuck in the middle of the night. My painful success!
Happy and satisfied, I slip into my warm bed; I put off the lights and close my eyes. Wait! I open it, “my editor better publish this article after all that I have gone through,” I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep!
My note pad lies on my desk, containing one of the finest interviews I took and my pen which normally strikes off information used for my article has remained idle tonight.
I curse the journalistic ethic of putting the punch line as the lead, getting the lead right needs a lot of brainstorming. Somehow I always managed but tonight something is not right, I just can’t get the lead right.
Am I missing the passion or is it the angered air because of some punks creating a scene outside my apartment? Don’t be distracted, concentrate I tell myself. Oh these words tonight just aren’t going anywhere, definitely not to the stories’ folder tomorrow morning.
After an hour of thinking, re-writing, cursing, smoking innumerous cigarettes, sending a few SMS, looking at some pictures, I get a 55 word lead typed. Balls! A lead has to be about 45 words, I think again, re-write, smoke again (no SMS this time) and finally get a lead of 40 words. Perfect!
The flow is on, my fingers busy, my idle pen striking off the information used, smiling, there is no stopping me now. Hell! Wait! I cannot figure out a word, damn, I should have asked the interviewee to slow down or I should have written it a bit slowly. I read the sentence over and over, trying to get the word. Damn! How I wish I could just presume it and go on. I figure it out after a while, voila, I get back with the flow.
What’s next? A quote doesnot make sense at all, I pick up my phone and try to call the interviewee to confirm it, and he isn’t answering. I try again, and again and again.
No answer! I rise from my chair, pace the floor to and fro, I stop, and pace again, I stop and kick a chair. I hit my darn toe. The ring of my phone doesnot let me curse the pain. I pick it up, great! I have the quote now.
I hop back to the keyboard and begin to type the last paragraph and get done with my article, finally! Amazing how pain can unstick the words stuck in the middle of the night. My painful success!
Happy and satisfied, I slip into my warm bed; I put off the lights and close my eyes. Wait! I open it, “my editor better publish this article after all that I have gone through,” I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep!
Changing Faces of Motherhood
“You are pregnant; you are on your third month.” The nurse’s voice teamed with these words pricked right through my heart.
“Please let this be a joke, this has to be a joke. I can’t be pregnant.” Words started to tread heavily in my head.
I was only 21 and still in college, still very young to become a mother. It wasn’t a dream for sure, although I would have given everything for it to be a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t!
I didn’t know how to react to it, had no idea what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to cry, or laugh or jump into the river? I was a shocked, scared and confused mother-to-be. (FACE ONE)
I guess I didn’t realize it then, but motherhood started from the first time I heard I was pregnant. But I feared to bring the life inside me into this world. Of course I wasn’t ready. “But, what the heck? What’s meant to happen was bound to happen anyways!” (FACE TWO)
As I went on to my sixth month of motherhood I was still in college. My fashion statements become loose track pants and big T-shirts. Yes, I won’t deny it; I was trying to hide motherhood. I was shy, too shy of what people will find out (although I figured out later people had already known). (FACE THREE)
After my parents knew about it, I felt more secure. My whole life started to take a new meaning to motherhood. I started to smile at motherhood, started to love motherhood and finally felt comfortable with motherhood. (FACE FOUR)
The morning sickness seemed to last for ever, my stomach looked like it was going to burst open any moment, pigmentations had invaded my face and I can never forget the long minutes I took to stand up every time I sat down.
The only clothes I could wear were the most hideous maternity dresses which made me feel very grandmother. The last few months of pregnancy was depressing, suffocating and annoying. (FACE FIVE)
The most important face of motherhood I missed was to feel the pain of giving birth (I am not talking about the face I saw on my friend while she was in labor). But I am talking about the pain full joy of motherhood.
Due to some complications I had to have a cesarean and since it was an emergency one I felt no labor, no contraction and no pain. (FACE SIX)
Sagging tummy, the swelling boobs, the 30 extra kilos I had put on during pregnancy, all the morning sickness, my fashion statement of grandmother clothes, missing the wild night outs with friend and even having to leave college, everything seemed to fade away.
None of these mattered to the joy I felt the moment I saw my son’s face. All my miseries seemed to disappear when I put him on my lap and close to my heart. That was indeed a beautiful feeling! Somehow, I feel, the joy of having your first child will never be the same as the second, or third or fourth. My achievement was motherhood and my trophy was my son. (FACE SEVEN)
Then it was the crazy moments of learning to be a mother. Motherhood does come naturally but with that come a completely different life. From changing diapers to getting the right baby food to knitting the most hideous tiny sweaters to bathing them to putting them to sleep to watching them laugh to holding their little hands. Everything thus becomes an adventure. (FACE EIGHT)
Motherhood takes a completely different face as your child grows. There is never a moment that passes by when you have related something to you child, be it good or bad. Then there is this proud moment when your son can draw a perfect “A” and calls you “Ama.” There is no greater joy in knowing your child is learning and you are learning too. (FACE NINE)
Being a single mother is a completely different form of motherhood. Trying to be the father as well as the mother is indeed difficult. I often fear in being questioned by my son as to why he grew up in a single mother’s home. What will I say to him? But then yet again, there is a joy to being a single mother. From playing football with him to dressing up as a ‘ninja’ to fight him to teaching him how to pee, everything makes me a kid too. (FACE TEN)
Motherhood changes your life forever, it transforms you completely. It’s an experience of a life time which starts from the day you are pregnant to and goes on for ever. Motherhood itself is a new life!
“Discovering that with every child, your heart grows bigger and stronger - that there is no limit to how much or how many people you can love, even though at times you feel as though you could burst - you don't - you just love even more.” - Yasmin Le Bon
“Please let this be a joke, this has to be a joke. I can’t be pregnant.” Words started to tread heavily in my head.
I was only 21 and still in college, still very young to become a mother. It wasn’t a dream for sure, although I would have given everything for it to be a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t!
I didn’t know how to react to it, had no idea what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to cry, or laugh or jump into the river? I was a shocked, scared and confused mother-to-be. (FACE ONE)
I guess I didn’t realize it then, but motherhood started from the first time I heard I was pregnant. But I feared to bring the life inside me into this world. Of course I wasn’t ready. “But, what the heck? What’s meant to happen was bound to happen anyways!” (FACE TWO)
As I went on to my sixth month of motherhood I was still in college. My fashion statements become loose track pants and big T-shirts. Yes, I won’t deny it; I was trying to hide motherhood. I was shy, too shy of what people will find out (although I figured out later people had already known). (FACE THREE)
After my parents knew about it, I felt more secure. My whole life started to take a new meaning to motherhood. I started to smile at motherhood, started to love motherhood and finally felt comfortable with motherhood. (FACE FOUR)
The morning sickness seemed to last for ever, my stomach looked like it was going to burst open any moment, pigmentations had invaded my face and I can never forget the long minutes I took to stand up every time I sat down.
The only clothes I could wear were the most hideous maternity dresses which made me feel very grandmother. The last few months of pregnancy was depressing, suffocating and annoying. (FACE FIVE)
The most important face of motherhood I missed was to feel the pain of giving birth (I am not talking about the face I saw on my friend while she was in labor). But I am talking about the pain full joy of motherhood.
Due to some complications I had to have a cesarean and since it was an emergency one I felt no labor, no contraction and no pain. (FACE SIX)
Sagging tummy, the swelling boobs, the 30 extra kilos I had put on during pregnancy, all the morning sickness, my fashion statement of grandmother clothes, missing the wild night outs with friend and even having to leave college, everything seemed to fade away.
None of these mattered to the joy I felt the moment I saw my son’s face. All my miseries seemed to disappear when I put him on my lap and close to my heart. That was indeed a beautiful feeling! Somehow, I feel, the joy of having your first child will never be the same as the second, or third or fourth. My achievement was motherhood and my trophy was my son. (FACE SEVEN)
Then it was the crazy moments of learning to be a mother. Motherhood does come naturally but with that come a completely different life. From changing diapers to getting the right baby food to knitting the most hideous tiny sweaters to bathing them to putting them to sleep to watching them laugh to holding their little hands. Everything thus becomes an adventure. (FACE EIGHT)
Motherhood takes a completely different face as your child grows. There is never a moment that passes by when you have related something to you child, be it good or bad. Then there is this proud moment when your son can draw a perfect “A” and calls you “Ama.” There is no greater joy in knowing your child is learning and you are learning too. (FACE NINE)
Being a single mother is a completely different form of motherhood. Trying to be the father as well as the mother is indeed difficult. I often fear in being questioned by my son as to why he grew up in a single mother’s home. What will I say to him? But then yet again, there is a joy to being a single mother. From playing football with him to dressing up as a ‘ninja’ to fight him to teaching him how to pee, everything makes me a kid too. (FACE TEN)
Motherhood changes your life forever, it transforms you completely. It’s an experience of a life time which starts from the day you are pregnant to and goes on for ever. Motherhood itself is a new life!
“Discovering that with every child, your heart grows bigger and stronger - that there is no limit to how much or how many people you can love, even though at times you feel as though you could burst - you don't - you just love even more.” - Yasmin Le Bon
Urban to Rural, still very Bhutanese
“Intrusion from the modern world was indeed minimal and made me be one with myself.”
But when I saw a porcelain toilet pot, the immediate excitement I showed made me feel so like the bear in the animation “Open Season.” I could hear myself say “Sweet porcelain.”
Ura to any one might not seem to be a remote place; the Ura road has a lot of vehicles pass through, the number of which you can’t just count on your fingertips. I have passed by Ura a number of times and always enjoyed the beauty of the place.
However, this trip was something different; I could this time enjoy the sound of silence and now and then the chirping of birds. I enjoyed the coolness of the rain in the evening and above all spending a night at a farm house and meeting my host family only in the morning.
As we city people always look for a quiet retreat away from city life every now and then, this trip was something I really needed, to rejuvenate with myself. Life as a journalist based in the capital is tiring; you are so caught up with work that you actually feel like a tourist whenever you visit rural lifestyle.
On the other hand, these rural based people unlike us said they always look forward to living in the city and dream of living life the city way.
The grass is always greener on the other side indeed!
I try to stay connected with the local people, trying to eavesdrop their conversation, taking pictures and trying to figure out what I want to write about. The best thing about being in the media world is that you are potentially touching the lives of thousands of people who read your write up.
But then there is yet another side of being in the media world. You always have to think twice before you start writing. Of course George Bernard Shaw has rightly fully said ‘A veteran journalist never thinks twice before he writes.” However, things aren’t just what George has said, at least not in the newsroom I work for.
Sometimes you take all the pain to write an article or rather you are forced to work on an article and then at the end of the day you look at the article and feel content in learning something new from it and cant wait for people to learn from it as well, and then a damn editor tells you your article isn’t going to go in.
This has happened to me many times and a lot of other journalists are going to support me on this one, except for the editors. Anyhow, I am not supposed to be complaining about work here but infact I am writing yet another article which will be turned down by some editors.
There is always a joy in meeting rural people, although Bhutan isn’t a very big country, somehow the rural-urban gap is big, quite noticeable.
Why do I feel this way?
Perhaps, that’s because I grew up in the city and I am accustomed to the city way of life. The further I go into the rural world; I feel I have more time for myself. No mobile connections, no television and no motors roaring.
I am trying my best not to sound like a tourist because my guide to travel writing tells me never to sound like a tourist. But then yes, there is no denying that you are a tourist or rather a domestic tourist the moment you set your feet on a rural place.
Everything about rural Bhutan is fascinating; I have travelled to rural Bhutan many times, on my own, with my family and friends. And never once have I felt I am done with rural lifestyle. When I look at the people and take pictures of their expressions, each face is an experience.
Photography!
Surely! This is one thing I love to do when ever I am out of the city.
Pictures that I take when ever I am travelling makes me stay connected to the experiences and lessons I have learnt from my travels.
There is a certain kind of calmness you feel as I sit out in the clean open air, with no traffic congestion, the irritating mobile ringtone of my cell phone (which I haven’t been able to figure out how to change it yet), no editors around to piss you off, no friends wanting to go out dancing and above all the clean environment.
It’s always just me and the beautiful nature surrounding me, no one and nothing else in between.
As the cool wind blows on my face, I can feel the coolness with a different feeling (definitely the feeling of being an actor in a Bollywood movie), the trees moving gracefully and no bright lights to disturb the beauty.
Such is the beauty of life in rural Bhutan, what more can a person asks for. Of course there is television, a nice bar to hang out on a weekend, a good bed to sleep in, a car to drive, a mobile phone (minus my irritating ringtone) to keep in touch with your friends, internet, a comfortable chair and table to write my articles and my annoying editors to edit my articles.
Sigh! There it goes the duality of life again!
If only my life was a luxury where I can get away from city life when I ever I need some quite moments and come back when ever I crave for a more luxurious life.
Rural Bhutan or urban Bhutan, Bhutan will always be Bhutan, always in one’s heart, where ever you go.
But when I saw a porcelain toilet pot, the immediate excitement I showed made me feel so like the bear in the animation “Open Season.” I could hear myself say “Sweet porcelain.”
Ura to any one might not seem to be a remote place; the Ura road has a lot of vehicles pass through, the number of which you can’t just count on your fingertips. I have passed by Ura a number of times and always enjoyed the beauty of the place.
However, this trip was something different; I could this time enjoy the sound of silence and now and then the chirping of birds. I enjoyed the coolness of the rain in the evening and above all spending a night at a farm house and meeting my host family only in the morning.
As we city people always look for a quiet retreat away from city life every now and then, this trip was something I really needed, to rejuvenate with myself. Life as a journalist based in the capital is tiring; you are so caught up with work that you actually feel like a tourist whenever you visit rural lifestyle.
On the other hand, these rural based people unlike us said they always look forward to living in the city and dream of living life the city way.
The grass is always greener on the other side indeed!
I try to stay connected with the local people, trying to eavesdrop their conversation, taking pictures and trying to figure out what I want to write about. The best thing about being in the media world is that you are potentially touching the lives of thousands of people who read your write up.
But then there is yet another side of being in the media world. You always have to think twice before you start writing. Of course George Bernard Shaw has rightly fully said ‘A veteran journalist never thinks twice before he writes.” However, things aren’t just what George has said, at least not in the newsroom I work for.
Sometimes you take all the pain to write an article or rather you are forced to work on an article and then at the end of the day you look at the article and feel content in learning something new from it and cant wait for people to learn from it as well, and then a damn editor tells you your article isn’t going to go in.
This has happened to me many times and a lot of other journalists are going to support me on this one, except for the editors. Anyhow, I am not supposed to be complaining about work here but infact I am writing yet another article which will be turned down by some editors.
There is always a joy in meeting rural people, although Bhutan isn’t a very big country, somehow the rural-urban gap is big, quite noticeable.
Why do I feel this way?
Perhaps, that’s because I grew up in the city and I am accustomed to the city way of life. The further I go into the rural world; I feel I have more time for myself. No mobile connections, no television and no motors roaring.
I am trying my best not to sound like a tourist because my guide to travel writing tells me never to sound like a tourist. But then yes, there is no denying that you are a tourist or rather a domestic tourist the moment you set your feet on a rural place.
Everything about rural Bhutan is fascinating; I have travelled to rural Bhutan many times, on my own, with my family and friends. And never once have I felt I am done with rural lifestyle. When I look at the people and take pictures of their expressions, each face is an experience.
Photography!
Surely! This is one thing I love to do when ever I am out of the city.
Pictures that I take when ever I am travelling makes me stay connected to the experiences and lessons I have learnt from my travels.
There is a certain kind of calmness you feel as I sit out in the clean open air, with no traffic congestion, the irritating mobile ringtone of my cell phone (which I haven’t been able to figure out how to change it yet), no editors around to piss you off, no friends wanting to go out dancing and above all the clean environment.
It’s always just me and the beautiful nature surrounding me, no one and nothing else in between.
As the cool wind blows on my face, I can feel the coolness with a different feeling (definitely the feeling of being an actor in a Bollywood movie), the trees moving gracefully and no bright lights to disturb the beauty.
Such is the beauty of life in rural Bhutan, what more can a person asks for. Of course there is television, a nice bar to hang out on a weekend, a good bed to sleep in, a car to drive, a mobile phone (minus my irritating ringtone) to keep in touch with your friends, internet, a comfortable chair and table to write my articles and my annoying editors to edit my articles.
Sigh! There it goes the duality of life again!
If only my life was a luxury where I can get away from city life when I ever I need some quite moments and come back when ever I crave for a more luxurious life.
Rural Bhutan or urban Bhutan, Bhutan will always be Bhutan, always in one’s heart, where ever you go.
A Modern Pilgrim's Progress to Bhutan's Mystic "Lion Fort "
STARING AT THE DYING SUN, I forget my otherness.
My soul becomes the sky. It is pure, untainted, authentic space.
I am free from the fetters of preconception, unbound by limitations, experiencing an ultimate field of possibilities.
Until I see the leech.
I try not to scream but there are half a dozen of the persistent little buggers (excuse me but there is no other way to describe them!) studiously climbing up my mud-soaked boots, leaving a trail of slime.
Fortunately Ap Yangku, our cook, guide and expedition leader in more ways than one, gallantly plucks them off.
All around me, the entire group of dozen or so trekkers is now a chorus line of madly hopping people desperately clutching blood-soaked shoes in an effort to shake off the leeches.
Besides Tom Petty and Bob Dylan on my Disk-man, there is a young Bhutanese doctor, Choeda, my cousin Choden, an education officer named Dochu and a full camp and kitchen crew of cooks, local horsemen and their assistants.
All through my childhood my family elders spoke reverently of the place. My mother returned from her own trip a few years ago deeply moved by the sacred power of the holy sites surrounding Singye Dzong or “Lion Fort” (so named because it looks like a leaping lion).
And now, here I am, trudging up the hill.
Day 1
An auspicious curve of rainbow bends from the heavens framing Lhuntse Dzong from where we set out on foot.
Soon we are singing jauntily from a mad jukebox selection of open-ended tunes from current western pop (Tom and Bob leading the crew), Bollywood hits and popular Zhungdra songs.
The fact that only one person from the entire motley crew, namely Ap Yangku, knows the route is of little concern to us.
Having begun our day at seven in the morning, our feet thump bravely over the Kuri Zam, bringing us in barely an hour to Khoma village. We are full of pep and quite proud of the progress we have made.
We wonder foolishly if this is going to be so easy.
Tom croons to me, conjuring a private rose-colored universe in the space between my earphones. That pretty much takes care of the trail along the Khoma River. Thanks, Tom.
What’s next?
Itchy bugs.
Scratching madly at things I cannot even see, I wait for Ap Yangku and the porters to arrive, bearing lunch. The river is long out of sight (although I can still hear the distant rumble) and all around are trees, trees and trees.
Ap Yangku and the porters arrive drenched in their own sweat. Chewing my food guiltily, I wonder how the porters ever make a living. Such meager reward for so much work.
In the afternoon we meet some people from Denchung, a village of a mere 20 inhabitants. Surely this is the smallest village in the world?
Afternoon tea is served by an ethereal waterfall that cascades toward us from dramatic cliffs.
“When a rainbow is visible over the falls,” a local man says. “It means the spirits are preparing their meals”. This is our first indication that we are now entering a landscape separate from the outside world.
Another hour’s walk brings us to Khomagang, our stop for the night. We are greeted by the aroma of fresh ground maize and the traditional offering of local spirits (the worldly kind that puts a fire in your belly, that is).
After the meal and refreshments, the villagers attempt to convince us the local husk of a building with new roofs and incomplete walls is actually a guest house.
Whatever, I think, as I pass out for the night.
If only.
Several times I toss and turn, trapped in the kind of nightmares that make you cold while the distant Khoma River or some primal drum beats a constant rhythm to my fitful dreams.
Day 2
In the bleary-eyed morning I see the constant drumming that punctuated my sleep was really a downpour. Of course, every single person who had scoffed at our “guest house” the previous night is now sheepishly ensconced within its half-finished walls.
After breakfast with a lingering aftertaste of wood smoke we resume our trek, passing a military outpost at Tsikhang. Shortly after lunch, the rain comes down again, just as we had predicted. I am glad we have all taken the time this morning to wrap our clothes and bedding in plastic to keep them from getting wet.
Despite the dubious protection of a decade-old rain jacket I am soaked, from my pants to my shoes to my socks. The cold sets in and my feet ache, dispelling any illusions from the previous day of a leisurely stroll through the woods.
The afternoon chai break is the best cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life.
Another half-hour back on the trail brings us to our camp, a place called Thangkarmo. Here I have my first opportunity all day to change into some dry clothes.
I marvel at how often we take for granted the delicious pleasure and comfort of a warm set of clothes.
Despite the leaky roof, our crudely built “guest house” tonight feels like a five-star luxury hotel. And, of course, everyone knows where they are going to sleep tonight, right?
Since it has been a long tiring day, we decide to break out the bottle of Johnny Walker as a treat for the crew. Most of them have never tasted imported whisky and are ecstatic at the opportunity.
In the afterglow of some excellent whisky, we all settle in for the night.
Day 3
Everyone wakes up rested and excited. Today we roll into Singye Dzong!
But first there are four hours of plodding through the mud.
Several times I slip over treacherous logs and land on my rear, getting myself wet and muddy all over.
We pass an amazingly massive and beautiful rock formation at Toktophu, with what locals consider to be holy water or drupchu dripping down its sides.
Lunch is at Doksum, “the place where three trails meet”.
Dr. Choeda arrives breathless. “The rest are still far behind,” he says. “We have no connection. Not sure when they will get here.”
This gives me some time to contemplate the river from a nearby bridge. I feel its fine misty fingers caressing my face. I close my eyes.
Afterwards, as we wait some more, Dr. Choeda confides that arriving at Singye Dzong will be his next greatest lifetime achievement since receiving a doctor’s degree.
Ditto!
When the stragglers finally arrive Choden is complaining about the blisters on her palm. From leaning too much on her makeshift hiking pole, she says.
Dochu, the education officer, says he has aching feet. Somewhere, somehow, shoes have been exchanged.
No one knows why but Choden is now wearing the education officer’s shoes and he hers.
Apart from that, spirits are still high.
“My hands hurt as well,” Dochu teases. “From Choden clinging to me all the time!”
However Ap Yangku, our normally hardy beacon of hope, has lost some of his normal cheer and appears somewhat peaked.
“It’s the altitude,” he says. “It makes it very difficult for me to walk.”
Arrival
“And there, ahead of us, is the incomparable Singye Dzong”, Ap Yangku says with a flourish. “Bow your heads and make your prayers.”
There is no magnificent fortress the usage of word Dzong normally implies.
The Lion Fort, it turns out, is no manmade monument but a unique geological formation. Of course I have gathered as much from the stories I have heard, but it is no less a shock.
What Ap Yangku is bowing to is a mountain, old and immense and timeless.
The surrounding valley is beautiful, every bit deserving of its reputation as a Bae Yul, a “hidden land” of perfection.
I feel every step, every bead of sweat, every single discomfort we have endured on the entire three-day trek rewarded manifold.
The sky is clear, expansive, and small distant streams coil down from the mountains. Ancient temples dot the landscape, the only evidence of human habitation.
Ap Yangku spurs us the final stretch with a bit of tomfoolery. There is a sacred rock where we can leave our thumbprints so our parents will be blessed, he says. But we have to run, or it will not work.
So we run and wildly stamp our digits on the first interesting rock beside the trail, until he arrives, laughing all the way.
Near the main temple in the valley, the resident lama greets us politely and directs us to the nearby guest house.
When the porters arrive, they are carrying some yak meat they claim came from a fresh Tiger kill.
Whatever the truth, the stew at dinner is delicious and tender and juicy.
Later, I turn on my Disk-man, as we slip into bed (Choden and I have our own private room). Jack Johnson, whoever he is, lulls me to sleep.
Breakfast holds a pleasant surprise outside our window. The mountains have donned a white mantle of snow during the night. In some inexplicable way, I feel as if Singye Dzong has done this just to welcome us.
I wear my warmest clothes in several layers until I feel like an overdressed Eskimo. We are going to climb to 18,000 feet today and everyone runs to Ap Yangku for a fill of his sweet black tea as we have heard it will stave altitude sickness.
I do fine in the beginning. But as the day wears on I feel I am being suffocated and the many layers make me hot and uncomfortable.
I am giddy and then nauseated, following which…well, I’ll spare the details.
The entire group worries and fusses over me. They hand me all kinds of sweet treats to spur me on. Sweets that get wedged in my cavities. I gobble everything like a fiend, but it doesn’t help.
My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts and my tooth begins to ache.
Dr. Choeda feels my pressure and says it is much too low. But I don’t want to give up after coming this far. He gives me a satchet of Oral Rehydration Salts.
I have always hated the taste of ORS.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, I drag myself up the mountain to Tshonag or “the black lake,”, first of the holy sites on local pilgrims’ routes.
I stare at the lake and hear detachedly the group’s songs honoring the spirits of the lake. The cold air feels good and slowly the pounding in my head ceases. Soon there is nothing but the encompassing peace and quiet.
It is indescribably beautiful, lying there at the foot of these snow covered mountains, staring at the lake, my mind mirroring its glassy surface.
On the other side is Tshokar or “the white lake”, completing the ying and yang, the yab-yum of this hallowed space.
In the concrete words of science both these lakes are called glacial runoffs, but the geography of the spirit describes them as the earthly manifestations of a gigantic sheep¯ with black hindquarters and white heels¯ transformed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, patron saint of Bhutan.
Halfway between the two lakes, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a small cave where the Guru’s consort Khando Yeshey Tshogyal meditated and reached enlightenment.
In the late afternoon, our rounds of the day complete, we head back down to the guest house after stopping for butter tea with a family of Yak herders.
The startled children outside the herders’ low stone huts begin to cry when they see us.
“Please don’t mind the children,” one of the mothers says. “They never see so many strangers at one time.”
Arriving back at the guest house as the last light is fading from the day, we drink celebratory rounds of Ara, eat and then sleep as only exhausted people sleep.
The Geography of Place and Myth
We rise early again to give ourselves ample time to complete the prescribed circumambulations.
First on the list is Gawa Dzong, with its magnificent statue of the Guru. Next is Dulwa Dzong, where we see a footprint in the rock credited to Khando Yeshey Tshogyal.
Further on, we climb a rock where the Guru is said to have meditated. Five celestial dakinis are appeared and offered the Guru holy water. The celestial sisters can be seen today as the five trees that dominate the surrounding landscape. It is believed that one must offer a song to each of the five celestials. Quickly we begin to run out of songs and our less-than-impressive rendition of current Bhutanese pop degenerates into entirely nonsensical rhymes, ending in much hilarity.
I’m sure the celestials are satisfied, though. After all, it’s the thought that counts.
At Dorji Dzong, the next site on our rounds, we hear the following story:
One day the Guru saw a frog climbing up the cliffs with the intent of plundering a beehive. The Guru divined this to be a bad omen for the world and subdued the frog, preventing all frogs thereafter from ever climbing a cliff or a tree.
Other places come in quick succession, including Pema Dzong and Namkhai Dzong and Rinchen Dzong. Soon the legends all blur and blend.
We are grateful to break for lunch.
In the afternoon, we take a tour of the main Singye Dzong complex, where we are introduced to three kinds of holy water whose sources are credited to the Guru and his two consorts, Khandro Tshogyal and Khandro Mendharawa.
We stop at a site with an imprint of Khandro Tshoyal’s back on the rock and are told that fervent pilgrims can sometimes make holy water ooze from the bare rock.
At another rock, with interesting black and white striations, we learn is the place where the Guru has imprisoned 108 mythical Garudas who could wreak havoc in the world.
During the entire day we have not once thought about the physical strain of walking and climbing.
Instead, we dip in and out of the exquisite landscape in front of us and the mythical and magical topography unfolding in our minds until I am quite unable to decide which is more real, the place in front of my eyes or the one that now inhabits my mind.
I am not even sure there is a difference.
Some people believe that truly dramatic landscapes such as waterfalls, rocks and mountains can be true portals into the higher realms of the spirit. For centuries, generations of my people have known this to be such a place.
By the end of our week long journey into the inner landscape of the spirit and outer geography of the land, I have no doubt Singye Dzong is a remarkable place of enduring spiritual power.
The Answer is blowing in the Wind
When we arrive back in Khomagang, a triple layer rainbow greets us, taking away the need for words.
Back in “civilization”, I say my farewells, dispensing with my hiking boots and socks, and handing them to one of the grateful young porters.
I think of cheerful Ap Yangku, who made it all possible, and of all the others who shared this incredible journey.
I feel as if I have stepped into the heart of the world and come home with a precious lesson I may not be able to articulate.
It may be true what the great masters have to say.
The deepest truths are heard only in the expansive space of silence.
“The answer” according to my friend Bob, “is blowing in the wind.”
My soul becomes the sky. It is pure, untainted, authentic space.
I am free from the fetters of preconception, unbound by limitations, experiencing an ultimate field of possibilities.
Until I see the leech.
I try not to scream but there are half a dozen of the persistent little buggers (excuse me but there is no other way to describe them!) studiously climbing up my mud-soaked boots, leaving a trail of slime.
Fortunately Ap Yangku, our cook, guide and expedition leader in more ways than one, gallantly plucks them off.
All around me, the entire group of dozen or so trekkers is now a chorus line of madly hopping people desperately clutching blood-soaked shoes in an effort to shake off the leeches.
Besides Tom Petty and Bob Dylan on my Disk-man, there is a young Bhutanese doctor, Choeda, my cousin Choden, an education officer named Dochu and a full camp and kitchen crew of cooks, local horsemen and their assistants.
All through my childhood my family elders spoke reverently of the place. My mother returned from her own trip a few years ago deeply moved by the sacred power of the holy sites surrounding Singye Dzong or “Lion Fort” (so named because it looks like a leaping lion).
And now, here I am, trudging up the hill.
Day 1
An auspicious curve of rainbow bends from the heavens framing Lhuntse Dzong from where we set out on foot.
Soon we are singing jauntily from a mad jukebox selection of open-ended tunes from current western pop (Tom and Bob leading the crew), Bollywood hits and popular Zhungdra songs.
The fact that only one person from the entire motley crew, namely Ap Yangku, knows the route is of little concern to us.
Having begun our day at seven in the morning, our feet thump bravely over the Kuri Zam, bringing us in barely an hour to Khoma village. We are full of pep and quite proud of the progress we have made.
We wonder foolishly if this is going to be so easy.
Tom croons to me, conjuring a private rose-colored universe in the space between my earphones. That pretty much takes care of the trail along the Khoma River. Thanks, Tom.
What’s next?
Itchy bugs.
Scratching madly at things I cannot even see, I wait for Ap Yangku and the porters to arrive, bearing lunch. The river is long out of sight (although I can still hear the distant rumble) and all around are trees, trees and trees.
Ap Yangku and the porters arrive drenched in their own sweat. Chewing my food guiltily, I wonder how the porters ever make a living. Such meager reward for so much work.
In the afternoon we meet some people from Denchung, a village of a mere 20 inhabitants. Surely this is the smallest village in the world?
Afternoon tea is served by an ethereal waterfall that cascades toward us from dramatic cliffs.
“When a rainbow is visible over the falls,” a local man says. “It means the spirits are preparing their meals”. This is our first indication that we are now entering a landscape separate from the outside world.
Another hour’s walk brings us to Khomagang, our stop for the night. We are greeted by the aroma of fresh ground maize and the traditional offering of local spirits (the worldly kind that puts a fire in your belly, that is).
After the meal and refreshments, the villagers attempt to convince us the local husk of a building with new roofs and incomplete walls is actually a guest house.
Whatever, I think, as I pass out for the night.
If only.
Several times I toss and turn, trapped in the kind of nightmares that make you cold while the distant Khoma River or some primal drum beats a constant rhythm to my fitful dreams.
Day 2
In the bleary-eyed morning I see the constant drumming that punctuated my sleep was really a downpour. Of course, every single person who had scoffed at our “guest house” the previous night is now sheepishly ensconced within its half-finished walls.
After breakfast with a lingering aftertaste of wood smoke we resume our trek, passing a military outpost at Tsikhang. Shortly after lunch, the rain comes down again, just as we had predicted. I am glad we have all taken the time this morning to wrap our clothes and bedding in plastic to keep them from getting wet.
Despite the dubious protection of a decade-old rain jacket I am soaked, from my pants to my shoes to my socks. The cold sets in and my feet ache, dispelling any illusions from the previous day of a leisurely stroll through the woods.
The afternoon chai break is the best cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life.
Another half-hour back on the trail brings us to our camp, a place called Thangkarmo. Here I have my first opportunity all day to change into some dry clothes.
I marvel at how often we take for granted the delicious pleasure and comfort of a warm set of clothes.
Despite the leaky roof, our crudely built “guest house” tonight feels like a five-star luxury hotel. And, of course, everyone knows where they are going to sleep tonight, right?
Since it has been a long tiring day, we decide to break out the bottle of Johnny Walker as a treat for the crew. Most of them have never tasted imported whisky and are ecstatic at the opportunity.
In the afterglow of some excellent whisky, we all settle in for the night.
Day 3
Everyone wakes up rested and excited. Today we roll into Singye Dzong!
But first there are four hours of plodding through the mud.
Several times I slip over treacherous logs and land on my rear, getting myself wet and muddy all over.
We pass an amazingly massive and beautiful rock formation at Toktophu, with what locals consider to be holy water or drupchu dripping down its sides.
Lunch is at Doksum, “the place where three trails meet”.
Dr. Choeda arrives breathless. “The rest are still far behind,” he says. “We have no connection. Not sure when they will get here.”
This gives me some time to contemplate the river from a nearby bridge. I feel its fine misty fingers caressing my face. I close my eyes.
Afterwards, as we wait some more, Dr. Choeda confides that arriving at Singye Dzong will be his next greatest lifetime achievement since receiving a doctor’s degree.
Ditto!
When the stragglers finally arrive Choden is complaining about the blisters on her palm. From leaning too much on her makeshift hiking pole, she says.
Dochu, the education officer, says he has aching feet. Somewhere, somehow, shoes have been exchanged.
No one knows why but Choden is now wearing the education officer’s shoes and he hers.
Apart from that, spirits are still high.
“My hands hurt as well,” Dochu teases. “From Choden clinging to me all the time!”
However Ap Yangku, our normally hardy beacon of hope, has lost some of his normal cheer and appears somewhat peaked.
“It’s the altitude,” he says. “It makes it very difficult for me to walk.”
Arrival
“And there, ahead of us, is the incomparable Singye Dzong”, Ap Yangku says with a flourish. “Bow your heads and make your prayers.”
There is no magnificent fortress the usage of word Dzong normally implies.
The Lion Fort, it turns out, is no manmade monument but a unique geological formation. Of course I have gathered as much from the stories I have heard, but it is no less a shock.
What Ap Yangku is bowing to is a mountain, old and immense and timeless.
The surrounding valley is beautiful, every bit deserving of its reputation as a Bae Yul, a “hidden land” of perfection.
I feel every step, every bead of sweat, every single discomfort we have endured on the entire three-day trek rewarded manifold.
The sky is clear, expansive, and small distant streams coil down from the mountains. Ancient temples dot the landscape, the only evidence of human habitation.
Ap Yangku spurs us the final stretch with a bit of tomfoolery. There is a sacred rock where we can leave our thumbprints so our parents will be blessed, he says. But we have to run, or it will not work.
So we run and wildly stamp our digits on the first interesting rock beside the trail, until he arrives, laughing all the way.
Near the main temple in the valley, the resident lama greets us politely and directs us to the nearby guest house.
When the porters arrive, they are carrying some yak meat they claim came from a fresh Tiger kill.
Whatever the truth, the stew at dinner is delicious and tender and juicy.
Later, I turn on my Disk-man, as we slip into bed (Choden and I have our own private room). Jack Johnson, whoever he is, lulls me to sleep.
Breakfast holds a pleasant surprise outside our window. The mountains have donned a white mantle of snow during the night. In some inexplicable way, I feel as if Singye Dzong has done this just to welcome us.
I wear my warmest clothes in several layers until I feel like an overdressed Eskimo. We are going to climb to 18,000 feet today and everyone runs to Ap Yangku for a fill of his sweet black tea as we have heard it will stave altitude sickness.
I do fine in the beginning. But as the day wears on I feel I am being suffocated and the many layers make me hot and uncomfortable.
I am giddy and then nauseated, following which…well, I’ll spare the details.
The entire group worries and fusses over me. They hand me all kinds of sweet treats to spur me on. Sweets that get wedged in my cavities. I gobble everything like a fiend, but it doesn’t help.
My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts and my tooth begins to ache.
Dr. Choeda feels my pressure and says it is much too low. But I don’t want to give up after coming this far. He gives me a satchet of Oral Rehydration Salts.
I have always hated the taste of ORS.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, I drag myself up the mountain to Tshonag or “the black lake,”, first of the holy sites on local pilgrims’ routes.
I stare at the lake and hear detachedly the group’s songs honoring the spirits of the lake. The cold air feels good and slowly the pounding in my head ceases. Soon there is nothing but the encompassing peace and quiet.
It is indescribably beautiful, lying there at the foot of these snow covered mountains, staring at the lake, my mind mirroring its glassy surface.
On the other side is Tshokar or “the white lake”, completing the ying and yang, the yab-yum of this hallowed space.
In the concrete words of science both these lakes are called glacial runoffs, but the geography of the spirit describes them as the earthly manifestations of a gigantic sheep¯ with black hindquarters and white heels¯ transformed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, patron saint of Bhutan.
Halfway between the two lakes, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a small cave where the Guru’s consort Khando Yeshey Tshogyal meditated and reached enlightenment.
In the late afternoon, our rounds of the day complete, we head back down to the guest house after stopping for butter tea with a family of Yak herders.
The startled children outside the herders’ low stone huts begin to cry when they see us.
“Please don’t mind the children,” one of the mothers says. “They never see so many strangers at one time.”
Arriving back at the guest house as the last light is fading from the day, we drink celebratory rounds of Ara, eat and then sleep as only exhausted people sleep.
The Geography of Place and Myth
We rise early again to give ourselves ample time to complete the prescribed circumambulations.
First on the list is Gawa Dzong, with its magnificent statue of the Guru. Next is Dulwa Dzong, where we see a footprint in the rock credited to Khando Yeshey Tshogyal.
Further on, we climb a rock where the Guru is said to have meditated. Five celestial dakinis are appeared and offered the Guru holy water. The celestial sisters can be seen today as the five trees that dominate the surrounding landscape. It is believed that one must offer a song to each of the five celestials. Quickly we begin to run out of songs and our less-than-impressive rendition of current Bhutanese pop degenerates into entirely nonsensical rhymes, ending in much hilarity.
I’m sure the celestials are satisfied, though. After all, it’s the thought that counts.
At Dorji Dzong, the next site on our rounds, we hear the following story:
One day the Guru saw a frog climbing up the cliffs with the intent of plundering a beehive. The Guru divined this to be a bad omen for the world and subdued the frog, preventing all frogs thereafter from ever climbing a cliff or a tree.
Other places come in quick succession, including Pema Dzong and Namkhai Dzong and Rinchen Dzong. Soon the legends all blur and blend.
We are grateful to break for lunch.
In the afternoon, we take a tour of the main Singye Dzong complex, where we are introduced to three kinds of holy water whose sources are credited to the Guru and his two consorts, Khandro Tshogyal and Khandro Mendharawa.
We stop at a site with an imprint of Khandro Tshoyal’s back on the rock and are told that fervent pilgrims can sometimes make holy water ooze from the bare rock.
At another rock, with interesting black and white striations, we learn is the place where the Guru has imprisoned 108 mythical Garudas who could wreak havoc in the world.
During the entire day we have not once thought about the physical strain of walking and climbing.
Instead, we dip in and out of the exquisite landscape in front of us and the mythical and magical topography unfolding in our minds until I am quite unable to decide which is more real, the place in front of my eyes or the one that now inhabits my mind.
I am not even sure there is a difference.
Some people believe that truly dramatic landscapes such as waterfalls, rocks and mountains can be true portals into the higher realms of the spirit. For centuries, generations of my people have known this to be such a place.
By the end of our week long journey into the inner landscape of the spirit and outer geography of the land, I have no doubt Singye Dzong is a remarkable place of enduring spiritual power.
The Answer is blowing in the Wind
When we arrive back in Khomagang, a triple layer rainbow greets us, taking away the need for words.
Back in “civilization”, I say my farewells, dispensing with my hiking boots and socks, and handing them to one of the grateful young porters.
I think of cheerful Ap Yangku, who made it all possible, and of all the others who shared this incredible journey.
I feel as if I have stepped into the heart of the world and come home with a precious lesson I may not be able to articulate.
It may be true what the great masters have to say.
The deepest truths are heard only in the expansive space of silence.
“The answer” according to my friend Bob, “is blowing in the wind.”
Ema Datshi and the Love Story of my Parents
Tears went streaming down my cheeks! I could see tears on my mother’s eyes too.
Hell no! We weren’t crying! We were just cutting onions to make our good ol’ Ema Datshi. Mom and I both sniffed and rubbed the tears off our checks with the back of our hands.
She started telling me the same story I have heard in the same kitchen every time I took time off work to help her cook. She told me about how she and her mother would go to the fields of Radhi to collect chilies.
Particularly, she always told me about the day she had to make the finest Ema Datshi that bonded my dad and her for a life time. “I had to impress him, he was then the only eligible bachelor who studied in a phoren country,” she told me.
But she also told me about the various thoughts that came to her mind when she saw my dad after more than a decade. “A thin guy with moustache with hair longer than her’s and skin fair like the snow, a cigarette in his hands and with the most expressive eyes” (which are now hidden behind his thick glasses), that’s what mom described her first rendezvous with dad after more than a decade.
“Did you fall in love with dad as soon as you met him?” I asked her. She said, she did but more than that she was already in love with him because she was told she was going to get married to him. Quite unusual huh!
As we moved on to cutting chilies now, she told me how dad and she would spend their time in the open fields of Radhi. Talking about phoren lands and learning to take her first puff from the cigarette and the first time she held hands with dad. Sounds very vague, but to my parents that was love.
And then she told me about the differences love they felt and the love we the younger ones felt. “Look at yourself and your brothers, every time you people meet someone exciting you think its love,” she said as she cut the chilies into four parts.
And here comes the best thing about love my mom told me.
“You fall in love only once, the day you find love is the day you know it’s for real and doesn’t only happen in movies and it lasts forever,” now wasn’t that sweet?
Then she told me about how dad and she finally moved to Thimphu, their first honeymoon in Paro and then to Manas (I don’t know why Manas).
She showed a totally different face of my father when my elder brother DG was born and how they lost DG’s twin. And then it was me and then my little brother (who is not so little anymore) Geley.
As she finally put all the ingredients into the pot finally she said, we don’t know what parenting and love is all about yet. “True love is what your father and I share. And parenting is everything the two of us have given the three of you and now to Wangyal (my son) and Kuenphen (Geley’s son) and to what we will be giving to Phuntsho’s son (yet to be born),” she said.
As we sit for dinner, dad looks at both of us and senses that mom and I had been bonding again. “I just heard mom’s story for the 158th time,” without telling him the details.
After dinner I am glad I helped mom cook Ema Datshi because that’s the time I get to be closer to the small realities which gave me LIFE!
Hell no! We weren’t crying! We were just cutting onions to make our good ol’ Ema Datshi. Mom and I both sniffed and rubbed the tears off our checks with the back of our hands.
She started telling me the same story I have heard in the same kitchen every time I took time off work to help her cook. She told me about how she and her mother would go to the fields of Radhi to collect chilies.
Particularly, she always told me about the day she had to make the finest Ema Datshi that bonded my dad and her for a life time. “I had to impress him, he was then the only eligible bachelor who studied in a phoren country,” she told me.
But she also told me about the various thoughts that came to her mind when she saw my dad after more than a decade. “A thin guy with moustache with hair longer than her’s and skin fair like the snow, a cigarette in his hands and with the most expressive eyes” (which are now hidden behind his thick glasses), that’s what mom described her first rendezvous with dad after more than a decade.
“Did you fall in love with dad as soon as you met him?” I asked her. She said, she did but more than that she was already in love with him because she was told she was going to get married to him. Quite unusual huh!
As we moved on to cutting chilies now, she told me how dad and she would spend their time in the open fields of Radhi. Talking about phoren lands and learning to take her first puff from the cigarette and the first time she held hands with dad. Sounds very vague, but to my parents that was love.
And then she told me about the differences love they felt and the love we the younger ones felt. “Look at yourself and your brothers, every time you people meet someone exciting you think its love,” she said as she cut the chilies into four parts.
And here comes the best thing about love my mom told me.
“You fall in love only once, the day you find love is the day you know it’s for real and doesn’t only happen in movies and it lasts forever,” now wasn’t that sweet?
Then she told me about how dad and she finally moved to Thimphu, their first honeymoon in Paro and then to Manas (I don’t know why Manas).
She showed a totally different face of my father when my elder brother DG was born and how they lost DG’s twin. And then it was me and then my little brother (who is not so little anymore) Geley.
As she finally put all the ingredients into the pot finally she said, we don’t know what parenting and love is all about yet. “True love is what your father and I share. And parenting is everything the two of us have given the three of you and now to Wangyal (my son) and Kuenphen (Geley’s son) and to what we will be giving to Phuntsho’s son (yet to be born),” she said.
As we sit for dinner, dad looks at both of us and senses that mom and I had been bonding again. “I just heard mom’s story for the 158th time,” without telling him the details.
After dinner I am glad I helped mom cook Ema Datshi because that’s the time I get to be closer to the small realities which gave me LIFE!
Her Story, Her Life
A flip through an age long ignored photo album, like a zombie she flipped through it. Half her attention on the album and the other half looking for something, as if something was lost.
Bringing her back to reality, her finger gets cut with the small tear of the corner of the album. Blood drips and falls on a face in the picture. As she sucks on her finger she cleans off the blood with the back of her hand.
A face shows!
She looks in to the eye of the person in the picture. So much of innocence, she thinks! Young and beautiful, not a trace of dirt reflected in her character. Still a virgin, a non-smoker, a non-drinker and above all a girl growing up.
That was her about more than a decade ago! Today, she had changed, a woman so different from the girl she once used to be.
She looks at her painted nails and her red high heels complimented by a pair black netted stockings. Her hair tied up high to show off her tattoo on her back, a naked woman standing on a lotus with one hand placed firmly on her breast and the other around her hips.
The clock strikes seven in the evening, she looks at it. She still has enough time to shower, cake herself up and get dressed before she starts work.
Her work started everyday at nine at night and depending on her clients she normally got off by morning and sometimes by noon if her clients were on a holiday.
A high class prostitute, who catered to business men who came from all over the world, that was her profession. However, she believed she was a woman who entertained people after a hard day work simply by selling herself for sex.
She led a life she never wanted to!
An architect was what she wanted to become, she never even got close to that.
Her life was a lot about glamour, about how she looked, what she wore inside the little clothes she wore and how much time she had to run from one client to another.
Always well organized, she kept a little black diary where she noted down all her appointments along with small backgrounds about her clients and what she should wear that would entice her clients with the rates for what she offered the clients.
From young spoilt rich kids to old rich men, she was a beauty worth paying a big amount.
She takes a closer look at her picture. Shakes her head! Tears pour out from her darkened eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried.
“What have I become?” she questions herself!
Faking orgasms, listening to her clients talk about their family while she remained naked in bed with them, changing her name each time she met a new client, sex in different positions and places, adding more and more slutty clothes to her wardrobe with the most exciting lingerie and living her life cocooned in sex.
This was what she had become!
She often dreamt of a life, a complete life!
A life where she can just wear a pair of jeans and T-shirt, without any make-up on. A life where she can just have sex with the person she loved. A life where she could look back at her day and smile for accomplishing something.
She takes another look at her picture and puts it away!
“What was then a necessity has now become a pleasure to me,” she whispers to herself.
This was her life and she had to live with it. She once took up prostitution to keep herself going, today it had become a part of her life and she couldn’t give it up.
She undressed and stepped into the shower, atleast to feel clean just before she went ahead to get dirty again.
Writer’s Note*** The person referred to here is totally a fictional character!
Bringing her back to reality, her finger gets cut with the small tear of the corner of the album. Blood drips and falls on a face in the picture. As she sucks on her finger she cleans off the blood with the back of her hand.
A face shows!
She looks in to the eye of the person in the picture. So much of innocence, she thinks! Young and beautiful, not a trace of dirt reflected in her character. Still a virgin, a non-smoker, a non-drinker and above all a girl growing up.
That was her about more than a decade ago! Today, she had changed, a woman so different from the girl she once used to be.
She looks at her painted nails and her red high heels complimented by a pair black netted stockings. Her hair tied up high to show off her tattoo on her back, a naked woman standing on a lotus with one hand placed firmly on her breast and the other around her hips.
The clock strikes seven in the evening, she looks at it. She still has enough time to shower, cake herself up and get dressed before she starts work.
Her work started everyday at nine at night and depending on her clients she normally got off by morning and sometimes by noon if her clients were on a holiday.
A high class prostitute, who catered to business men who came from all over the world, that was her profession. However, she believed she was a woman who entertained people after a hard day work simply by selling herself for sex.
She led a life she never wanted to!
An architect was what she wanted to become, she never even got close to that.
Her life was a lot about glamour, about how she looked, what she wore inside the little clothes she wore and how much time she had to run from one client to another.
Always well organized, she kept a little black diary where she noted down all her appointments along with small backgrounds about her clients and what she should wear that would entice her clients with the rates for what she offered the clients.
From young spoilt rich kids to old rich men, she was a beauty worth paying a big amount.
She takes a closer look at her picture. Shakes her head! Tears pour out from her darkened eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried.
“What have I become?” she questions herself!
Faking orgasms, listening to her clients talk about their family while she remained naked in bed with them, changing her name each time she met a new client, sex in different positions and places, adding more and more slutty clothes to her wardrobe with the most exciting lingerie and living her life cocooned in sex.
This was what she had become!
She often dreamt of a life, a complete life!
A life where she can just wear a pair of jeans and T-shirt, without any make-up on. A life where she can just have sex with the person she loved. A life where she could look back at her day and smile for accomplishing something.
She takes another look at her picture and puts it away!
“What was then a necessity has now become a pleasure to me,” she whispers to herself.
This was her life and she had to live with it. She once took up prostitution to keep herself going, today it had become a part of her life and she couldn’t give it up.
She undressed and stepped into the shower, atleast to feel clean just before she went ahead to get dirty again.
Writer’s Note*** The person referred to here is totally a fictional character!
Get Drunk, Get Divorced...That's The Way it is!!!
I bought a bottle of whiskey home. Nothing but the bottle was full; there was emptiness all around me.
I filled a glass, as the whiskey poured into the glass, life poured in too. There is so much joy in drinking alone at times.
Who but the broken hearted drinks alone?
Finishing the whiskey in one gulp seemed to be the same feeling ending my single status life.
It just runs down your throat, the burning sensation in your head, making you feel nice and secure and eventually making you love life, not the whiskey but the feeling.
The same seems to be with marriages, happy or not, there is always a burning sensation within you with your status changing from single to married.
You actually love life, not your husband but the feeling of being married.
I make myself another drink and once again gulp it down.
Just to get the taste of it, either because I need to get drunk or because I paid for it!
Exactly, how marriages are, you get married because you are compelled to or because you paid for it by falling in love.
Now everything seems to be a bit tipsy, I feel I should have had the whiskey a bit slowly or mixed with coke.
Typically, my marriage again!
After a few months being entitled to the “married” status, I feel I should have taken it a bit slowly or should have mixed the pros and cons of married life.
I wait for a while, wondering if I should have another drink.
I think I am done!
But, what the heck? How will I ever get drunk if I don’t try to get myself drunk
Similarly, I wonder if I should give sometime for this marriage to work out. How will I ever know if I fell in love with him if I don’t give it a try? I decide to have another drink, this time making sure I keep in mind to have it with coke.
At the same time I did decide to give my marriage another try but making sure I keep the mixture of the pros and cons of what I would already call a “failing marriage.”
The feeling now seems to be good; I am smiling for giving it a try to bring this feeling to me.
The feeling of being drunk as well as the feeling for “trying” to make my marriage work. Which one ever it is, I have the feeling of achieving something.
Floating on what seems to be straight out of “Aladdin’s magic carpet,” I do not have my toes on the ground.
Yeah baby! I am flying!
Do I decide to have another drink?
The floating is finally over; everything seems to be spinning around. Is it the feeling or the world itself that’s spinning? I begin to wonder!
Drinking and getting married is similar but getting drunk and being in the marriage are just the same.
A storming headache makes me wanna cry. “I can’t take it any more,” the voice keeping banging at the back of my head. “Move on, just let it out. Run to the rest room.” But my legs can’t move.
My now almost failed marriage tells me to get out of it, to walk out of it and to just let it go. Stubborn in my blood! I still wonder if I should have another drink in what I would call a “pathetic situation.” And I wonder if I should give my marriage another try in what I would call a “stupid situation.”
“No more of both,” I finally let out a cry!
Out come almost all of my insides with details I will leave it up to you to imagine and off goes my marriage with what I will leave up to you to call a divorce.
I finally sigh!
Looking forward to the next day, I try to get outta bed.
A bad hangover for sure!
Marriages are just like bad hangovers; it lasts as long as you have ‘drunk’ moments and goes away.
Similarly, marriages last as long as you are married and the feeling goes away the moment you get your mind off it!
So get drunk, get married, get hangovers and get divorced. That’s the way life is, atleast for some, atleast for me!
I filled a glass, as the whiskey poured into the glass, life poured in too. There is so much joy in drinking alone at times.
Who but the broken hearted drinks alone?
Finishing the whiskey in one gulp seemed to be the same feeling ending my single status life.
It just runs down your throat, the burning sensation in your head, making you feel nice and secure and eventually making you love life, not the whiskey but the feeling.
The same seems to be with marriages, happy or not, there is always a burning sensation within you with your status changing from single to married.
You actually love life, not your husband but the feeling of being married.
I make myself another drink and once again gulp it down.
Just to get the taste of it, either because I need to get drunk or because I paid for it!
Exactly, how marriages are, you get married because you are compelled to or because you paid for it by falling in love.
Now everything seems to be a bit tipsy, I feel I should have had the whiskey a bit slowly or mixed with coke.
Typically, my marriage again!
After a few months being entitled to the “married” status, I feel I should have taken it a bit slowly or should have mixed the pros and cons of married life.
I wait for a while, wondering if I should have another drink.
I think I am done!
But, what the heck? How will I ever get drunk if I don’t try to get myself drunk
Similarly, I wonder if I should give sometime for this marriage to work out. How will I ever know if I fell in love with him if I don’t give it a try? I decide to have another drink, this time making sure I keep in mind to have it with coke.
At the same time I did decide to give my marriage another try but making sure I keep the mixture of the pros and cons of what I would already call a “failing marriage.”
The feeling now seems to be good; I am smiling for giving it a try to bring this feeling to me.
The feeling of being drunk as well as the feeling for “trying” to make my marriage work. Which one ever it is, I have the feeling of achieving something.
Floating on what seems to be straight out of “Aladdin’s magic carpet,” I do not have my toes on the ground.
Yeah baby! I am flying!
Do I decide to have another drink?
The floating is finally over; everything seems to be spinning around. Is it the feeling or the world itself that’s spinning? I begin to wonder!
Drinking and getting married is similar but getting drunk and being in the marriage are just the same.
A storming headache makes me wanna cry. “I can’t take it any more,” the voice keeping banging at the back of my head. “Move on, just let it out. Run to the rest room.” But my legs can’t move.
My now almost failed marriage tells me to get out of it, to walk out of it and to just let it go. Stubborn in my blood! I still wonder if I should have another drink in what I would call a “pathetic situation.” And I wonder if I should give my marriage another try in what I would call a “stupid situation.”
“No more of both,” I finally let out a cry!
Out come almost all of my insides with details I will leave it up to you to imagine and off goes my marriage with what I will leave up to you to call a divorce.
I finally sigh!
Looking forward to the next day, I try to get outta bed.
A bad hangover for sure!
Marriages are just like bad hangovers; it lasts as long as you have ‘drunk’ moments and goes away.
Similarly, marriages last as long as you are married and the feeling goes away the moment you get your mind off it!
So get drunk, get married, get hangovers and get divorced. That’s the way life is, atleast for some, atleast for me!
A December to forget (or not)
Normally around this time of the year, everyone looks forward to giving away gifts that brighten people’s homes, room and lives. They look forward to a new year that lies ahead of them.
But this year, the nation has seen numerous sad stories unfolding in the last month of 2010.
This December month has given the nation many reasons to mourn. For family members, friends and the nation as a whole have been totally disturbed by sudden incidences that took away 33 Bhutanese lives.
The month did not favor 26- year old Rita who was one of the nine victims who died in the bus accident at Lamperi yesterday.
Her two children back home in Dagana had insisted on going with her to Thimphu. Her three aunts who waited for her arrival at the Thimphu bus terminal had spoken to the two children just the night before Rita left for Thimphu.
“If we don’t get to go to Thimphu then ama is not going also,” one of Rita’s aunts repeated the children’s words to Bhutan TODAY.
The aunts wept as they identified Rita’s body.
Likewise, many hearts broke when they lost people close to them. The identification of dead bodies made it even worse.
Some cried and some became hysterical while some stood in one corner, not believing what this December month has bought to them.
Following the Tara Air crash which killed 18 Bhutanese pilgrims in Okhaldhunga district in Nepal, the prime minister, Lyonchen Jigmi Y. Thinley told the Bhutanese media that the family members of the victims were all “so inconsolable.”
For most Bhutanese students, December month is a month to rejoice over the academic year that has passed by while they look forward to the new academic year.
The two months of winter break is something every student looks forward to.
But for Tashi Penjor, a class VII student, his winter break ended for ever on December 18.
It was results day and he came back home with a failed report card. An angry mother scolded him for wasting a whole year. She had even warned him about what might happen when his father comes home.
In fear of his father, Tashi Penjore decided to end his life rather than face his father’s temper.
He hung himself by an apple tree in Paro.
Another 21-year old student, studying in Gaedu College was in Thimphu for his winter break.
He and his friend were returning home from Thimphu when the scooter they were traveling on skidded and collided with a railing along the expressway in Babesa.
The accident killed the student on the spot.
On December 5, the body of six-year old Thinley Jamtsho was fished out from a sewerage tank in Babesa.
His body was naked and bloated when he was fished out of the tank with a hook. People who were present at that time said he was still wearing the plastic sunglass that was considered a possession by him.
Another woman in her mid 20s was found dead in a sewerage tank in Babesa.
Carrying a few hundred notes and a pair of gold earrings on her ears, there was nothing that could identify who she was.
In Paro, on December 8, villagers living next to the river found the body of a 28-year old woman.
When the body was found, dogs had surrounded the woman’s body, feasting on the deceased’s insides.
She had drowned to death.
The deceased had gone missing since November 20 and the search for her began on November 23, after her husband reported to the Paro police.
Police told Bhutan TODAY earlier that the deceased was mentally unsound and must have fallen into the river while taking a walk.
Yesterday, in another car accident in Trashiyangtse, one more life was lost.
The biggest car tragedy that ever took place in the country dates back to June 16, 1998. The incident still lives in the memories of all Bhutanese even today.
In that accident, 58 passengers lost their lives with 13 survivors.
There were 72 passengers jam-packed in a bus with half the carrying capacity.
Similarly, in yesterday’s incident the carrying capacity of the bus was only 22 passengers while the bus was carrying 37.
The Tara Air which crashed on December 15 was at least 5,770 kilograms.
The Twin Otter that crashed can fly with 5,670 kilograms including its own weight.
However, the aircraft was an extra 100 kilograms. Experts say that even 30 kilograms more than the capacity is dangerous for a flight.
But this year, the nation has seen numerous sad stories unfolding in the last month of 2010.
This December month has given the nation many reasons to mourn. For family members, friends and the nation as a whole have been totally disturbed by sudden incidences that took away 33 Bhutanese lives.
The month did not favor 26- year old Rita who was one of the nine victims who died in the bus accident at Lamperi yesterday.
Her two children back home in Dagana had insisted on going with her to Thimphu. Her three aunts who waited for her arrival at the Thimphu bus terminal had spoken to the two children just the night before Rita left for Thimphu.
“If we don’t get to go to Thimphu then ama is not going also,” one of Rita’s aunts repeated the children’s words to Bhutan TODAY.
The aunts wept as they identified Rita’s body.
Likewise, many hearts broke when they lost people close to them. The identification of dead bodies made it even worse.
Some cried and some became hysterical while some stood in one corner, not believing what this December month has bought to them.
Following the Tara Air crash which killed 18 Bhutanese pilgrims in Okhaldhunga district in Nepal, the prime minister, Lyonchen Jigmi Y. Thinley told the Bhutanese media that the family members of the victims were all “so inconsolable.”
For most Bhutanese students, December month is a month to rejoice over the academic year that has passed by while they look forward to the new academic year.
The two months of winter break is something every student looks forward to.
But for Tashi Penjor, a class VII student, his winter break ended for ever on December 18.
It was results day and he came back home with a failed report card. An angry mother scolded him for wasting a whole year. She had even warned him about what might happen when his father comes home.
In fear of his father, Tashi Penjore decided to end his life rather than face his father’s temper.
He hung himself by an apple tree in Paro.
Another 21-year old student, studying in Gaedu College was in Thimphu for his winter break.
He and his friend were returning home from Thimphu when the scooter they were traveling on skidded and collided with a railing along the expressway in Babesa.
The accident killed the student on the spot.
On December 5, the body of six-year old Thinley Jamtsho was fished out from a sewerage tank in Babesa.
His body was naked and bloated when he was fished out of the tank with a hook. People who were present at that time said he was still wearing the plastic sunglass that was considered a possession by him.
Another woman in her mid 20s was found dead in a sewerage tank in Babesa.
Carrying a few hundred notes and a pair of gold earrings on her ears, there was nothing that could identify who she was.
In Paro, on December 8, villagers living next to the river found the body of a 28-year old woman.
When the body was found, dogs had surrounded the woman’s body, feasting on the deceased’s insides.
She had drowned to death.
The deceased had gone missing since November 20 and the search for her began on November 23, after her husband reported to the Paro police.
Police told Bhutan TODAY earlier that the deceased was mentally unsound and must have fallen into the river while taking a walk.
Yesterday, in another car accident in Trashiyangtse, one more life was lost.
The biggest car tragedy that ever took place in the country dates back to June 16, 1998. The incident still lives in the memories of all Bhutanese even today.
In that accident, 58 passengers lost their lives with 13 survivors.
There were 72 passengers jam-packed in a bus with half the carrying capacity.
Similarly, in yesterday’s incident the carrying capacity of the bus was only 22 passengers while the bus was carrying 37.
The Tara Air which crashed on December 15 was at least 5,770 kilograms.
The Twin Otter that crashed can fly with 5,670 kilograms including its own weight.
However, the aircraft was an extra 100 kilograms. Experts say that even 30 kilograms more than the capacity is dangerous for a flight.
A national tragedy
A picture remains in one of the albums of Facebook today; on the left hand corner is a face familiar to the students of Phuntsholing Higher Secondary School, and one truth binds everyone together: Thinley Rinchen is gone, forever.
While his classmates wait for the winter vacation to be over, to be together once again and update each other on how they spent their winter vacation, Thinley Rinchen’s body lies in one of the cold rooms in Bir Hospital in Kathmandu.
He was one of the 18 Bhutanese pilgrims who died in the Tara Air plane crash on Wednesday.
As his class mates yesterday to offer butter lamps in his memory, relatives, family members, friends and other pilgrims present there waited at the Tribhuvan International Airport, in Kathmandu yesterday.
Shocked and still in disbelief, some broke down and became hysterical as the Nepal’s aviation authorities confirmed that the Twin Otter flying the pilgrims from Lamidanda to Kathmandu had crashed.
Bodies of each passenger on board were bought out on a stretcher by the Nepal Army rescue team, each covered with a white cloth.
And as the words “killed everyone on board” struck them, some of the relatives started whispering prayers, hoping that this was not true.
Back home, in an emergency press conference called by the prime minister, Lyonchen Jigme Y. Thinley yesterday, he said the government has tried to get in touch with the family members of the victims.
“They are all so inconsolable,” he said.
The head of the nine member Bhutanese delegation sent to Kathmandu yesterday, the Cabinet secretary, Dasho Tashi Phuntsho told Bhutan TODAY that the family members and relatives present in Kathmandu are all shattered and devastated.
One of the victims was a Class XI Science student from Mothithang Higher Secondary School; Lhazin Wangmo was a recipient of Class IX Topper Certificate from His Majesty in 2008.
She was traveling with her adopted mother Kelzang.
Kelzang is survived by her son Ngawang Tenzin, who runs a tailoring shop.
Retired Lt. Col Tshewang Rinchen who was one of the victims was traveling with his wife Dema, his son Thinley Rinchen, his sister in law Kezang Wangmo, his nephew monk Karma and Samdrup, who is an account at the Center for Bhutan Studies and his sister Phub Pem.
None of them survived.
The other victims were Phub Gyelmo from Wangdue who is survived by her son Tsagay who is a monk at Dochhoety Goenpa in Paro, Tshering Wangmo, her sister Dorji Bidha and her daughter, Pema Wangmo from Talo, Punakha, monk Sangay from Gaselo, Wangdue who is the brother of the Drapai Lopen, the owner of Gyelyong enterprise, Kunzang Dorji, Sangay Bidha from Hebisa, Punakha and Tshering Yangki who is yet to be identified.
Another Bhutanese pilgrim who was supposed to travel on the same flight made last minute cancellations and was not on board. Some other passenger had been on board in his place by the similar name; however the 18th victim has not been indentified yet.
All 18 bodies were brought into the capital city of Nepal yesterday afternoon and were directly taken for postmortem to Bir hospital.
Family members, other pilgrims and the Bhutanese delegation sent to Kathmandu waited long hours at the hospital.
While the delegation tried to console the family members of the victims, the silence of the room in which they were asked to wait was broken by soft cried from one corner and a few hysterical cries from the other.
“They had gone Draphu Maratika to pray for their long lives,” said a relative of one of the victims. “But then life ended there itself for them.”
Hours after waiting at the hospital, the delegation decided to take the family members to Annapurna Hotel as most of them has remained hungry throughout the day.
Dasho Tashi Phuntsho told Bhutan TODAY that most of them refused to step into the restaurant but eventually after much consoling, they finally settled in.
They took small bites of snacks served but their mind remained somewhere else.
Even representatives from the Nepal government and officials from Tara Air were present there.
Meanwhile, 14 of the victims were staying at the Potala Guest House, which is a popular among most Bhutanese visiting Kathmandu.
The front desk official told Bhutan TODAY that when the crash was first confirmed, some of the relatives had become unconscious.
“Some become hysterical and went out of hand,” he said. “There were difficult to handle.”
The remaining four were staying in Boudha area.
While the whole nation grieves over the ill-fated aircraft that claimed 18 Bhutanese lives, they await for their bodies to arrive in the country tomorrow.
While his classmates wait for the winter vacation to be over, to be together once again and update each other on how they spent their winter vacation, Thinley Rinchen’s body lies in one of the cold rooms in Bir Hospital in Kathmandu.
He was one of the 18 Bhutanese pilgrims who died in the Tara Air plane crash on Wednesday.
As his class mates yesterday to offer butter lamps in his memory, relatives, family members, friends and other pilgrims present there waited at the Tribhuvan International Airport, in Kathmandu yesterday.
Shocked and still in disbelief, some broke down and became hysterical as the Nepal’s aviation authorities confirmed that the Twin Otter flying the pilgrims from Lamidanda to Kathmandu had crashed.
Bodies of each passenger on board were bought out on a stretcher by the Nepal Army rescue team, each covered with a white cloth.
And as the words “killed everyone on board” struck them, some of the relatives started whispering prayers, hoping that this was not true.
Back home, in an emergency press conference called by the prime minister, Lyonchen Jigme Y. Thinley yesterday, he said the government has tried to get in touch with the family members of the victims.
“They are all so inconsolable,” he said.
The head of the nine member Bhutanese delegation sent to Kathmandu yesterday, the Cabinet secretary, Dasho Tashi Phuntsho told Bhutan TODAY that the family members and relatives present in Kathmandu are all shattered and devastated.
One of the victims was a Class XI Science student from Mothithang Higher Secondary School; Lhazin Wangmo was a recipient of Class IX Topper Certificate from His Majesty in 2008.
She was traveling with her adopted mother Kelzang.
Kelzang is survived by her son Ngawang Tenzin, who runs a tailoring shop.
Retired Lt. Col Tshewang Rinchen who was one of the victims was traveling with his wife Dema, his son Thinley Rinchen, his sister in law Kezang Wangmo, his nephew monk Karma and Samdrup, who is an account at the Center for Bhutan Studies and his sister Phub Pem.
None of them survived.
The other victims were Phub Gyelmo from Wangdue who is survived by her son Tsagay who is a monk at Dochhoety Goenpa in Paro, Tshering Wangmo, her sister Dorji Bidha and her daughter, Pema Wangmo from Talo, Punakha, monk Sangay from Gaselo, Wangdue who is the brother of the Drapai Lopen, the owner of Gyelyong enterprise, Kunzang Dorji, Sangay Bidha from Hebisa, Punakha and Tshering Yangki who is yet to be identified.
Another Bhutanese pilgrim who was supposed to travel on the same flight made last minute cancellations and was not on board. Some other passenger had been on board in his place by the similar name; however the 18th victim has not been indentified yet.
All 18 bodies were brought into the capital city of Nepal yesterday afternoon and were directly taken for postmortem to Bir hospital.
Family members, other pilgrims and the Bhutanese delegation sent to Kathmandu waited long hours at the hospital.
While the delegation tried to console the family members of the victims, the silence of the room in which they were asked to wait was broken by soft cried from one corner and a few hysterical cries from the other.
“They had gone Draphu Maratika to pray for their long lives,” said a relative of one of the victims. “But then life ended there itself for them.”
Hours after waiting at the hospital, the delegation decided to take the family members to Annapurna Hotel as most of them has remained hungry throughout the day.
Dasho Tashi Phuntsho told Bhutan TODAY that most of them refused to step into the restaurant but eventually after much consoling, they finally settled in.
They took small bites of snacks served but their mind remained somewhere else.
Even representatives from the Nepal government and officials from Tara Air were present there.
Meanwhile, 14 of the victims were staying at the Potala Guest House, which is a popular among most Bhutanese visiting Kathmandu.
The front desk official told Bhutan TODAY that when the crash was first confirmed, some of the relatives had become unconscious.
“Some become hysterical and went out of hand,” he said. “There were difficult to handle.”
The remaining four were staying in Boudha area.
While the whole nation grieves over the ill-fated aircraft that claimed 18 Bhutanese lives, they await for their bodies to arrive in the country tomorrow.
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