THE INNER VOICE

ONE NIGHT....

2012-02-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

One night, broken hearted, I cried out to God,
“I am a useless creature,
Either kill or heal me.”
I am a castaway,
Rejected, unwanted, a doll in tatters
In the guise of a woman.
I am used and I have failed.
I have nothing to look forward to,
If I die peacefully tonight in my sleep,
I would happily.
I have no cause to live for
No daring dreams
No knight in shining armor to rescue me.
But a voice whispered, “Wait!”
“There’s a time for everything!”
I wailed and wept
But the voice kept asking me to hold on.
Am I living in a dream?

EULOGY TO A LADY

2012-01-15T13:26:00.000-08:00

Few women are ladies.
What or who is a lady?
Consider this.
I have come across one of this rare breed.
And she has changed the way I perceive the role and capacity of a woman.
A complete woman.
She has a busy career to take care of and an equally chaotic home but she is a most loving and dutiful wife, and mother.
She is beautiful though she is a mother of three kids and maintains a well-groomed appearance.
Her husband is a wayward man and a workaholic but she is always by his side rendering him utmost support
Going by the situation at home and especially the treatment meted out to her by her husband through years of turbulent marriage, she could have left long ago.
She has no dearth of admirers (maybe that’s why her husband is so possessive of her though he is unfaithful himself!)
But she chose to remain because she is a woman with a wonderful heart and unlimited patience.
She is by her family through thick and thin.
She is gifted by nature in all aspects.
Looking at her forbearance, I feel ashamed at my own pettiness and immaturity.
She is looked up to by her children who never feel the brunt of negligence and are well-disciplined.
She has fulfilled the role of a wife, a mother, a friend, a sister, a professional and most of all a woman.
Let this be an eulogy to her!

I BLEED

2012-01-12T19:20:00.000-08:00

It hurts deep down
At the pit of my heart
I am disintegrating
Never felt complete
Ridden with guilt and sorrow
Never felt that I belong
An alien in a familiar world
Resurrected memories
Feelings that stifle
How I wish I were
Like the birds in the sky
Free and flying
Caged in a coop
I flutter my wings
Like a rooster with clipped feathers
Shadows from the past
Shady tentacles pull me back
Into a world that I have tried to escape
My heart is broken
Into shards that cut me
I bleed

A LOVE STORY

2012-01-07T06:10:00.000-08:00

She once loved a man
But he belonged to another
She loved him with her whole heart
Until she wished for none other
She adored him and treated him like a priceless gem
But the whole affair turned sordid and put her to shame
He was, but she wasn’t game
So she decided to do away with the friendship whatever came
Soon she left and was once again an aloof, lonely dame
But then she made for herself a name
And was surrounded by fame
But she could not forget
That once upon a time
She loved a man named HIM.

GROWING THROUGH PAIN

2011-12-25T01:42:00.000-08:00

People react differently to pain.
Some deny it deliberately.
Some wallow in it and refuse to let go.
Some fail to recognize it and indulge in activities which they feel will make the lonely, nagging feeling go away.
The best part is to see those who accept it and move on.
I have had my fair share of experiences in life.
Some are extremely painful to remember.
I have questioned myself and life.
I have been broken by guilt and grief.
Some memories are so painful, I often cry in bed.
But then, there is also a silver lining in the cloud.
Without pain, there is no growth.
It is as if a lump of gold is being refined in hot, white fire – the fire of suffering.
And at the end the product might be a sterling character.
Whoever has never experienced pain (and they are exceptions) do not know the essence of life.
Tears may not be pleasant when they fall but once they leave our eyes, our hearts turn more mellow, soft, compassionate and tolerant to others’ faults, and mature.
And what can be more precious in God’s sight than that?
God often uses pain to shape, chisel and mould us into sublime beings.
So hold on there.
It’s not over yet.
You still have to reap the fruits of your pain and how sweet they will be!

AMAZING GRACE

2011-12-19T18:38:00.001-08:00

My trip to Delhi had been confirmed.
I was worried about not making an appointment with the US embassy for a visa.
I was worried about the interview because there were changes in my professional portfolio.
I was worried that I would have to stay alone in a hotel for 10 days.
I was worried about budget constraints.
I was sad I would have to spend Christmas away from home.
Well, the very next day of my arrival, I got my US visa in a walk-in interview.
I stayed three nights in a seven-star hotel (I stayed with Lyonchhen and his delegation as a friend of mine was part of it).
I had more than enough money to shop and spare.
I got friends to spend my time with and accompany me.
I could finish my work and return after just two days.
What made this possible?
God’s amazing grace.
Everything fell into place like a jigsaw puzzle.
And not because of coincidence.
Although you can say that even coincidences are brought about by God.
I got more than I had asked or hoped for.
God had talked to me through Matthew 6:29 when I was at the Paro airport lounge: “And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
God did glorify me and how!
Christmas is approaching.
It’s a time to re-pledge and rededicate ourselves toward God.
I cannot make any promises but I will try my best to be a better Christian and human being and never ever underestimate God’s amazing grace.

IF I DIDN'T KNOW.....

2011-11-26T05:24:00.000-08:00

If I didn’t know pain, how would I joy?
If I didn’t know hate, how would I love?
If I didn’t know trouble, how would I peace?
If I didn’t know betrayal, how would I loyalty?
If I didn’t know suffering, how would I empathy?
If I didn’t know poverty, how would I cherish plenty?
If I didn’t know loneliness, how would I comfort the friendless?
If I didn’t know depression, how would I wipe away another’s tears?
If I didn’t know want, how would I fulfill the needs of the deprived?
If I didn’t know travail, how would I God?

OF SARCHOKPA BUS RIDES AND VULGAR KHALASIS

2011-11-17T07:52:00.000-08:00

I was going to the far-east after two long years. I had stayed in remote Trashigang for almost ten years with my family including a year alone as a bureau correspondent for the first private newspaper in the country before being reposted to the capital.
From Thimphu, it takes two days to reach Trashigang and the same applies on the way back. I noticed a peculiar pattern on my four-day journey back and forth in a bus.
The first day, I excitedly boarded the bus and noticed an unkempt young man hovering around the bus. I thought he was the driver but later, a man smartly dressed in a pangtha gho whom I had mistaken to be a gentleman about to board the bus took control of the wheels. The other was the so called “khalasi” (in borrowed Bhutanese parlance) or famous “bus conductor”.
Everybody was speaking in Sarchop so I put in my bit – a smattering of words here and there. The journey from Thimphu to Bumthang where we halted for the first night was ok – if that is the term one uses for boring music, yawns and unusable toilets where we halted for breakfast.
Apparently, the driver was not a chatty, effable one (until later) and every time a good song came up in the music player, he forwarded it but I bit my tongue though it sorely tested my less than saintly patience.
The next day was louder. The passengers warmed up to each other along with the eastern weather. Then followed the “khalasi’s” usual routine – of flirting with the belles in the bus. He was standing just before me and I was sandwiched between the girl who was the target of his corny jokes and who to her credit matched his “wit” with equal candor.
The other passengers joined in and when we reached Mongar, a middle-aged woman clambered up next to me. She would not leave the “khalasi” alone, with her repertoire of equally crude jokes.
Then a father of two kids and the driver started cracking jokes about “mewakchas and fewakchas” (women and men). I think you got the gist. Everybody at least seemed to be enjoying the crass jokes, which we Bhutanese term “humour”.
We finally reached Trashigang and departed ways.
On my way back, the same pattern repeated itself, though the “vulgar verbosity” started a bit earlier, towards evening of the first night back towards Bumthang.
The next day, the whole ride back to Thimphu was riddled with jokes about the male and female anatomy, with suitable metaphors used by the driver - a pot-bellied dark man, the “boy or kota khalasi,” two middle-aged village women (it’s the “aunties” who lead) and again I was in the centre of this cozy and should I say crazy group.
I hate to be judgemental here- of course, many will say that this is the everyday scenario in buses and it’s a Bhutanese way of connecting but I was wondering – Can’t we do far better than that?
I agree there was much merriment involved but in reality not everyone was enjoying it. There was a young man and woman seated together. When the jokes began to get dirtier and dirtier, the man got up and moved to the back seat out of obvious embarrassment. And when the “kota” hinted to his boss about it, the whole group threw a volley of harsh words at him indirectly.
Then, there was a married couple with a kid who also did not take very kindly to their rude remarks about their relationship in front of the whole horde of travelers.
It is not that we should be a robot-like lot with no sense of humour but there is a right and a wrong sense of humour. Cracking jokes, especially ones that are not pleasing to the aesthetic imagination and at the expense of others is height of rudeness.
There are intelligent, bright, innocent, good jokes and if we are good observers with a touch of wit, we can sense something funny in the most atrocious or simplest situations. The Bhutanese need to realize this.
Bhutanese seriously need to learn the art of good conversation.
Good talk counts as much as good manners.

CHANGE & MEMORIES

2011-10-31T14:30:00.000-07:00

The seasons change…..from spring to summer to fall and winter.
The lunar cycle is in constant motion.
The Milky Way changes the course of its billion stars and asteroids once in eons.
The seed germinates, flowers, gives fruits and withers.
What in life is permanent? Nothing.
Change is the name of the game, the only thing that’s constant.
People change, circumstances, relationships and feelings, too.
It is like watching a rainbow.
The beautiful hues which appear at the confluence of rain and sunshine disappear within minutes.
We can only treasure the moment.
Hold onto it. As if our life depends on it.
Because what is a life without memories?
Without those old black and while images eaten by silverfish?
Or the fading colours of those perfumed portraits?
What is man’s love if not a transient phase?
But the effects are eternal.
It shapes a woman’s dreams and self-image.
The memories of her first kiss or her first love-letter make her smile.
The memory of their baby’s first steps or words makes her parents shed a tear of remembrance.
Memories are precious and they last but the events preceding them do not.
There is also hurt and pain from the past.
Grim memories – maybe a heart-rending word, or neglect or sheer hatred.
But we need to let go.
God not only told us to forgive our enemies, he told us to forgive ourselves as well.
By letting go of past hurt and regret, we forgive ourselves and love God.
Change changes the world but we can change the meaning of change by changing ourselves with the times.

LOVE IS.......(for a woman)

2011-10-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

LOVE IS…..
Sharing when there is nothing
Crying and laughing together
A touch, a hug, a kiss
Travelling for 24 hours to spend five minutes with him
Getting up in the middle of a wintry night and seeing if the blanket is covering him, too
Making him a hot cup of tea after you return tired from work
Buying him a pair of shoes when your own need repairing
Making a birthday cake for his mother
Letting him have a guys’ night out
Listening to him rave about his favorite soccer team and not yawn
LOVE IS ALSO…….
Keeping away when you know you should
Correcting gently when he makes a mistake
Encouraging him to be with other friends
Caring about his spiritual and moral life
Telling him not to be extravagant especially on you
Letting go of the past &
Letting him go if needed

THE GOD ARGUMENT

2011-10-04T11:08:00.001-07:00

Admit it. Most human beings in the world are a broken lot. It is the culmination of a long list of unfulfilled dreams and heartaches since we started being cognitive and could reason or feel.
Parental expectations to academic performance to peer pressure to conforming to societal norms, and the result is we often have people who are not reluctant to label themselves “social misfits” and some even declare it proudly because it elevates them to an altogether different realm from the usual “social butterflies” and “commons”.
Apart from these people who claim not to belong to the normal world order, we have others like atheists, apatheists, free thinkers, radicals, conservatives, fanatics, humanists, secularists, you name it. There is every category of people alive on the earth but the bottom line is – WHAT MATTERS?
Evolutionary biologists term people as just an aggregation of selfish cells and molecules which battle for survival as in Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection where the “fittest survives”.
It leaves no room for a human soul or the existence of the Divine.
And unfortunately, many people are broken just because they cannot connect to a source of external Supreme power which exists.
However, surprisingly, the theory of ultimate secularization, which most atheists and agnostics propound, with science making all its gigantic steps is not only nullified; it is being reversed.
In the 21st century, there is a global revival of religion. According to Dinesh D’ Souza, the author of the best selling “What’s so great about Christianity,” more than 90 percent of Americans believe in God, and 60 percent say their faith is important to them. America, thus supposed to be the most secular country in the world is the most religious country in the Western world.
He also states that despite the limitations imposed by the Chinese government, it is estimated that there are now 100 million Christians in China who worship in underground evangelical and Catholic churches.
“Thus, the thesis of inevitable secularization has lost its credibility.”
Ever wonder why this is happening?
Peter Berger argues that “modernization helps people triumph over necessity but it also produces a profound crisis of purpose in modern life. The greater the effects of modernization, the stronger the social anxiety and the striving for something more”.
“Secular culture itself produces a deep need for meaning in life and therefore also for religion," says Wolfhart Pannenberg
I always argue that people essentially are spiritual beings. They have something inside them which materialism and hedonism cannot fulfill. There is always a longing for something more meaningful and the sense of an everlasting.
I would like to believe that a human being is definitely not a robot-like creature which just thrives on survival, satiating its desires and passing on its genes. Living without reason, purpose or hope is one of the greatest tragedies mankind could ever face.
We hope because there is something intrinsic in us which makes us do so. In the same way, we believe in the Divine because there is a sense of the spiritual within us.
We may scoff at the idea of a monotheistic God or Creator but even Science cannot prove cent percent that there is no Divine Being that governs the world and its functions.
In fact, most modern scientists state that the latest findings of Science support religion.
Now, coming back to my lead. How many of us have been broken? Broken by inacceptance, guilt, hatred and shame? Why would we feel this way if we were unfeeling creatures? If we were simply machines made to consume resources, reproduce and die, why do so many find solace in the spiritual?
Every heartbreak has a life lesson to offer.
We often strive for the eternal when things in the limited world don’t go our way. In fact, that is a blessing.
Here I would like to quote from a devotional, “A Cup of Comfort”:
“Have you noticed how God uses broken things? A broken flower blossom gives off sweet perfume. Only broken soil can accept seeds to produce a ripe crop of wheat. And the bread must be broken if it must sustain our lives. So...what about a broken person? What about you?”
Ask yourself this question and think if it’s time you changed your perspective about life and existence.

SUNNY SIDES UP!!!

2011-09-16T11:31:00.000-07:00

Animal figments:
Bulls cook up a lot of shit
Lizard tales are always broken
Parrots crack up a lot
Crocodiles smile to welcome while their tears are a façade
Pigs take mud baths as beauty treatment
One can never make out whether a hyena is laughing or crying
How come zebras never cross the road?
….like moths to a flame
….like flies to a jar of honey….Damn! The flies definitely have better taste!
Mom silverfish: Darling, are you still hungry?
Child silverfish: Yes, the book you gave me was too light.

The Chinese discovered silk and tea
The Greeks discovered philosophy
The Italians Art
And the Bhutanese an excuse

Albert Einstein apparently encountered a lot of static in his experiments. Evidence: His flyaway hair

Mona Lisa’s smile fetched a fortune. Lucky we don’t have to look for the toothpaste otherwise we would have to spend a hell lot of energy and resources for it

With the China-India-USA intrigue building up in the Himalayas we need little heat from global warming to melt the glaciers

Heard in the (famous for media people) Jorden restaurant:
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“No, I am a carnivore.”
“Monks in Bhutan do a lot of monk(ey)ing around”

Heard in a Bhutanese home:
Father- In the good old days, we used to go to school in shabby clothes, walk in chappals, collect firewood and water, and cook ourselves.
Son-I would rather be in the bad days

Girl 1- I paid Nu 10,000 for my new hair-do
Girl 2 to Girl 3 (in a whisper)- I would not pay a penny more to look like that!

HAVE YOU EVER LOVED....?

2011-09-10T07:12:00.001-07:00

Have you ever loved someone so much that your heart literally bled with pain?
Have you ever loved someone so passionately yet him could never attain?
Have you ever loved someone so madly that to lose him would be gain?
Have you ever loved someone so badly that you wished you would die?
Have you ever loved someone so truly that all you wanted was his happiness at your expense?
Have you ever loved someone so much that you would not mind losing him?
Have you ever loved someone so deeply that all the pathos you could see in his eyes?
And hope to see fulfilled all his desires?
Have you ever loved someone so madly that to be close to him was your life’s wish?
Even if it could not end in a kiss?
Have you ever loved someone so much that you were willing to sacrifice your desire?
And never ever end up in a mire?
Have you ever loved someone so deeply that you could bear the distance between you two?
And all other contradictions, too!

GETTING UP AND MOVIN' AGAIN

2011-09-09T14:49:00.000-07:00

God has been gracious.
They say repeating mistakes is a crime.
I have committed many and I have repeated them, too.
But through all my trials and tribulations, through all my guilt and self- hatred and brokenness, God has been there.
He has nurtured me as a Father would a petulant child.
And I am grateful to the Almighty that he has forgiven and forgotten my past, wiped clean the slate and presented me a pristine new sheet of paper to write my life on.
It was hard going.
When morals clashed, when madness reigned, when passions surged.
It was tough.
When guilt robbed me of inner peace, when my cherished morals were shattered, when my ideals came crashing down.
I have had my fair share of inner demons torturing me.
I have not been immune to gossip, self-condemnation and a burning resentment against God and all mankind.
I have asked the question “why?” a thousand times.
“Why me, God?” I have wailed in despair and shed copious tears.
But then I realized that you learn.
The elements can transform the crudest piece of rock into a glittering diamond.
I can’t say I have attained my ultimate form.
But I have changed, yes.
And all the bitterness, rage and heartbreaks I went through have made me a stronger person who can now comfort others going through similar predicaments.
Maybe God meant it that way.
After all, He is the Great Teacher.
And when a teacher or a parent reproves his student or child, the latter always gains.
It may take ages for him to realize the good that the cane has done him but when he does, there is nothing but gratitude.
Now that, I have been given a new lease of life, I can’t afford to commit a crime.
I can’t afford to repeat my mistakes.
Though even if I do, but return with a contrite heart, my Father remains ever welcoming with open arms.
Bertrand Russell, the famous atheist, once said: “Unless you assume a God, the question of life’s purpose is meaningless.”
What is there to life if there isn’t an “ever after?”
Isn’t everything then futile? All life’s toils and troubles?
But we carry on because we have a sense of the eternal in us.
This life is just a preparation for what comes next.
The Nazi camp survivors confirmed this. Those who survived the worst, most inhumane conditions in concentration camps had a hope that fueled their desire to live and they did not give up.
That hope was God.
As one of them, Corrie ten Boom, said: “If you look at the world you will be distressed, if you look within you will be depressed. But if you look at Christ, you will be at rest!”

LOST

2011-07-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

A void lurks before me
I enter the pitch black darkness
So thick you could slice it with a knife
I feel myself and I cannot
I am lost
Seamlessly submerged into the surroundings
I cry out but my voice fails me
My subconscious roves around the corners
Of the black-hole like cave
There is yet a thought, an impulse
Am I still living?
Or am I matter vaporized?
I exist in the crevices of thoughts
I long for a sign, a tangible feel of life and the living
I try to breathe
But I am all air
Nothing exists as me or within me
Nothing exists outside me, too
I am an abyss of thoughts and memories
I travel down a tunnel
There is a flicker of light at the end
I float towards it like wind
Maybe it will revive my being, my substance
Maybe I will regain my former form
But the passage is endless
I can’t reach the end
Suddenly, the darkness turns into a swirling vortex
I am sucked in deeper and deeper
And I am lost forever

A FISTFUL OF SAND

2011-07-13T22:20:00.000-07:00

I was sitting by the river, listening to the rapids cascade over boulders and rocks.
A gentle breeze rustled the nearby shrubs and I was in another world.
The setting sun cast a fiery golden glow over the horizon which the water reflected.
I picked up a handful of sand from the river bank and grasped it tightly.
It slipped through my fingers until there was no more left in my fist.
I grabbed another fistful, this time letting the inside of my hand cradle it loosely. It held on.
Maybe this is an apt metaphor for what often happens in our life with loved ones.
Be too possessive, rave and rant for an ounce of their affection and tighten your grip on them till they have no breathing space and they elude you. There is no more love in the relationship. It becomes a source of heartache to both parties.
But give them their own space. Love them but don’t impinge on their freedom. Care for them but don’t suffocate them and you have a wonderful relationship that works both ways.
It took me a long time to realize this. Of course, it involves a certain amount of sacrifice especially if the other person concerned is someone you love or care for deeply but then, it is worth it.
God has set an example. He knocks at the door of our hearts but never forces his way in. That is love.
Selfless love that gives the other the freedom of choice.

GOD WITH ME

2011-07-08T10:18:00.001-07:00

I have raved and ranted. I have shed copious tears about what I feel has been unfairly offered to or deprived off me by life. I have gone into depressive mode. I have even been analyzing the prospect of going incommunicado with a few people in my life who have hurt me or at least whom I blame for hurting me. I have been bitter and cynical and sarcastic with my loved ones.
But at the end, I realized it does not pay. It really does not. To sit on your high moral stool and pass judgments and condemn and spit fire and venom or scheming insidiously to hurt those who have betrayed your trust.
There is a book called the Bible. It was written over a period of 1,500 years by at least forty authors including kings, scholars, philosophers, fishermen, poets, statesmen, historians and doctors.
And reading its soothing messages, hearing the Spirit of God speak to me through it, I knew that when we feel weak, it can be a sign of blessings to come.
Jesus Christ, the Man-God sacrificed everything including his life for me on the Cross just so that I could receive God’s grace, forgiveness and be free of my bondages.
People equate living a Christian life with bondage and slavery because they say there are “too many rules”.
But then, there are rules that bind and rules that free.
If you watch a soccer match and there are no rules, no referee, and no markings for the boundaries of the pitch, rest assured chaos will prevail.
But put everything, the correct things in place and soon you have an enjoyable match.
Christianity is something like that. It is not a religion. It is living for God, the only true, omnipresent and omnipotent Creator. And there is always something new to discover each day.
Sometimes, things happen in life which we least expect and we may sooner be in the middle of an island but trusting in God helps us remain calm because he gifts us with precious inner peace.
Even when we are in a dilemma, submitting our problem to him will ultimately take us on the right course.
I have experienced this. I am schizophrenic; I am have been on medication for the last 12 years; my mom and elder brother suffer from the same debilitating disease; my dad confessed to me that he once attempted suicide because of all the domestic pressure (fortunately, he was unsuccessful); I still get attacks; And for the past few months I have been in moral and spiritual crisis with problems at work to boot.
It was no smooth sailing. But just tonight, as I was going through gospel literature, God opened my eyes. And said: “Hey, I am with you and things are not that bad!”
Right, I have a great, cozy job, I have great friends, I have a wonderful, supportive family, I have my own strengths and talents, I have a place of my own, I am independent, I have people who care for me………
So, what was I being so morose and depressed about?
People in life don’t have it easy and for me God has almost presented blessings to me on a platter.
I resolve to rectify my attitude. I resolve to be happy. I resolve to be grateful for every little thing.
Of course, I will not always be bubbling over with joy but then, I will try to remember my Saviour in times of dire need and even in moments of overwhelming prosperity and happiness
I will try to keep the faith. Touchwood.

THE LOSS OF INNOCENCE

2011-07-02T21:39:00.000-07:00

Tenderly lovely like a rosebud, her smile was like the blossoms opening up to receive the first rays of sunlight. She had a pixie charm; curly locks, alabaster skin, rosy lips and wide, innocent eyes which could transform from limpid pools of deep pathos to twinkling stars of mischief. Everyone knew she was a girl who had yet to see and experience the world and its wonders and disappointments.
Then the retrogression started once she attained her twenties.
The disillusionments of life overcame her. Her parents divorced when she passed out from college, her brother was struck with a terminal disease and she was soon on the lookout for a job to sustain her broken family.
And then the final blow came in the form of a man whom she fell in love with. He bestowed kisses upon her, whispered sweet nothings into her ears and finally managed to steal her innocence.
Then he left her never to return. The lovely appearance faded slowly. There was no rosiness or charm in her looks anymore. There was no longer any coquetry and mischief in her behavior. She withdrew and withdrew into a shell. She just existed. The outer now hag-like form was all that remained of her.
People say sometimes you can spot her on lonely evenings taking a solitary walk in the forest hiding her face with a shawl and often gazing at the far away horizon or the dawning stars and moon.
I have never seen her but this is a story of the end of innocence, love and goodness in the world that I often rue over.

RUMINATIONS ON AN APPLE TREE

2011-06-28T01:56:00.000-07:00

There is an apple tree outside my window.
It is a proud tree with a sturdy trunk covered with whitish brown bark; long, thick branches sprout from the mid-base and taper into thin twigs. The rain often beats down on its jade-green leaves. Clusters of tender leaves in lighter hues of emerald grow at the tips along with the young fruits.
The baby apples are like little round balls of crisp flesh right now, enclosed in light green cover. I often watch the tree from my window and listen to the rustling of its boughs in the breeze.
Today, it has rained and the leaves hold the precious dew drops like a mother cradling her new-born baby. The sky is grey and looks like it is going to shower down on earth again.
I have watched this tree grow since winter when it was nothing but a barren shrub. It was cold every morning and the frost would settle down on the withered plant, rendering it the quaint air of a man old and huddled over with age.
Then, the spring came and the tree gained a life of its own. Tender green sprouted from its twigs and soon it was covered with white, fragrant blossoms spotted pink from which the bees and butterflies drank richly. The birds would hop from branch to branch and declare its glory.
Its flowers would scatter in my courtyard or a lone petal would get entangled in the web a spider had spun outside my window pane.
It is a wonderful sight to see the apple tree every once in a while and sip a cup of aromatic tea, contemplating the changes that have come over it.
Soon, the fruits will ripen, turn rosy and sumptuous, and will be harvested.
Then, Autumn will arrive with its winds and a lonely shroud will envelop the tree. The leaves will blow away in the wind, curled up and a golden brown. Maybe the spider web will catch some of them.
Then again it will be accosting the freezing winter with its feathery snowflakes; the surroundings will transform into a mini Ice-land.
I am changing, too with the seasons. And I often wonder whether it is progressive or regressive but the apple tree always revives in me hope of a new spring and the beauty the world holds.

THE WOMAN BY THE WINDOW

2011-06-18T05:15:00.000-07:00

I see her by the window always. She is past her mid-twenties but there is a certain vulnerability and naivety in her childish face that makes her look much younger.
Today, she is wearing a beige summer dress with frills and her hair has been arranged into a loose bun with the help of a polka-dotted brown clutch. A few strands are loose and they fall by her face blown by gentle gusts of wind.
I see her most of the time looking out of the window with a far-away look in her eyes. Sometimes, she is watching the peach trees blossom, sometimes her eyes follow the pale yellow butterflies feasting on the blossom-nectar and at times, I see her stretch out her hands to touch the rain drops as they fall.
At times, she sits by the window, deeply focused on a book or scribbling something in a blue-bound diary, a forlorn melody or song emanating from her room.
She is always alone and lost in her own contemplations.
Someone once told me her story.
She was a woman who had loved and lost.
As a young girl, she had been something of a recluse but as time passed youthful and worldly fancies occupied her. She opened up in college to a certain extent and then when she finally got a job and became independent, she belonged to the world at last.
However, her upbringing had always been conservative and she had never fallen in actual love except for the usual school crushes.
Then, when she had blossomed into a full, young woman, he came into her life.
She gave him everything – her heart, soul and love.
But it was not meant to be.
One day, he left for a distant land saying he would return and take her with him.
He promised her they would have a wonderful house to live in and he would treat her like a princess.
Oh, how she loved him!
She waited for a fortnight but he did not turn up. Then she waited for a month but in vain. Then it was months of loneliness and then years. He never came back.
She returned to her old habit of reclusiveness. Solitude became her sole companion. Her heart had been broken and the bloody tears it shed soon dried up. Her heart was replaced by a stone – unfeeling, unknowing.
She had lost the ability to feel, leave alone love or hate.
Her old parents gave up on her and they soon died leaving her with a tidy inheritance.
She left her job and now, she never leaves the house or the window.
A maid servant does her shopping and chores for her.
There is a dullness in her eyes as if she is looking right through you or at nobody in particular.
If you pass that cottage and look over the threshold someday, you will see her; watching the sunset or the birds flying over her garden.
She will never see another human being again.

THE HEART OF EVIL

2011-05-29T03:21:00.000-07:00

Pain pricks like a thousand needles
My heart blood lies splattered
A knife has gone through the beating organ
And a sword through my spirit
I am wounded both in flesh and mind
Memories haunt me, beckon me
Shady, dark yet unbearably precious
The heart of Evil
The past bygone but ruthless
The future unseen and mysterious
Yielding to passion is way to shame
It is the Tempter’s twisted game
Can I live with a memory that suffers
And a conscience that chides every single day?
What is it in man that makes a woman love him?
And in a woman that beguiles a man?
Leaving the safe bosom of moral sanity
I dive into an abyss of darkness and passionate abandon
That sticks to me like an aura
I struggle to set myself free
Like a wild falcon whose feathers have been clipped
This is madness against sanity
Man against morality
Who will win the battle or the war for the matter?
Time heals but too slowly
Memories will fade but the scars will remain
Like a deep burn or an acid attack
My thoughts are dark and deep
My longings too strong to keep
I ride the wind and pick up a shield
But it breaks into a thousand shards
Like glasses broken by drunkards
Divine help I need
Is it there indeed?
I pass my days in gloom, agony and guilt
Hoping one day I will be removed from this filth

MUSINGS ON LONELINESS

2011-05-22T07:36:00.000-07:00

People call me a loner.
I think and try to define the word “loneliness”.
What exactly do you mean by “being lonely”?
And are “loners” necessarily lonely?
I come to a conclusion: There are two types of loneliness – the loneliness without and the loneliness within.
The first type thrives on the need for company or at least companions, people around you.
I have come across people where this need is their strength while it can also become their weakness.
Many people, especially extroverts have a manic need of being in a crowd, and noise, sounds and conversation becomes a habit with them. When they are alone, they feel something is missing.
This is the loneliness dependent on exterior conditions and it can be a kind of addiction which can lead to either harm or good. Excesses can destroy while moderation can be constructive and lead to social health and vitality.
This kind of people is usually fun-loving, daring and love talking. In fact, talking fulfills their psychological, social and personality needs. They are the ones who enliven a party or a group conversation and usually take initiatives.
So if suddenly, they are deprived of their friends or associates, they are most likely going to be subjected to dejection, depression and yes, “loneliness”.
This is the loneliness without.
Now the other one, the loneliness within, is a bit complicated.
This usually happens with introverts. Have you encountered the word – “spacing out?” Well, this kind of people is alone even in a wild, raucous crowd. Have you seen the occasional person who likes to be alone as a choice? And when the whole company is in high spirits, he seems to be the silent observer or listener?
He loves solitude and maybe poetry (to add a bit of romanticism).
He may talk but there is a certain quiet and calm in him.
He usually controls his passions to a high degree.
Surrounded by people but you just feel like you are the only one existing – loneliness within.
And to bring up the question, I brought up earlier – are loners necessarily lonely?
I don’t think so.
They live in a world that has a charm of its won.
Reminds you of art, literature, jazz, solitary walks by the river, listening to the rustling of leaves and watching the butterflies.
Reminds you of creativity, ideas, romance, dreaming and an ecstasy strange and secret.
The world tends to label people and put them into compartments.
It is stifling.
Let the company-lovers enjoy their talk and their glasses of wine. And let the so-called loner dream on and create.
Loneliness is not always a handicap but fear of it certainly is.

THE OTHER WOMAN

2011-05-20T04:50:00.000-07:00

I sit by the window watching the seasons pass by. It is summer-time now. Drops of rain beat on the roof sonorously and trickle down the eaves leaving a trail of wetness along the walls.
The skies are overcast with promising grey clouds. The rhythm of the rain drops is like a jazz song played out slowly. I hold out my hand and feel the cool drops on my palm. I try to hold the tiny, transparent beads but they elude me. They pass through my fingers as easily as light penetrating a crevice.
Reminds me of him like every other thing does.
Was it a year or a month back, or just yesterday?
I remember sitting by the sea-shore with him. He held me as I drew his name on the sand but the waves would not let the letters be. The waters came again and again washing away the sand and gravel and along with it those precious words.
Some moments freeze in time. And no matter how hard you try to exterminate them from your memory, you cannot. They hold onto you and become a part of you, like the air you breathe, the food you take and the clothes you wear.
I remember how we used to share an ice-cream cone in freezing winter. I would rub the gooey stuff onto his nose and he would ruffle my hair and laugh.
I remember playing in the rain with him, screaming like little kids as we jumped into puddles, splashing muddy water on each other.
We used to go on long rides in his car and return to “our” place and sit by the balcony watching the moon and stars cast a gigantic motif in the dark night sky, sipping glasses of wine.
But all this changed.
It changed the night I received the call.
It was a broken voice – a shattered being; a woman crying.
His wife.
I knew he had a family. He often talked about them. But without emotion.
I knew he loved them though. I could feel it. Women’s intuition, I guess.
I once saw his wife and kids’ picture in his purse.
They looked like a cozy, happy family, smiling and filled with warmth.
After the call, the phone dropped from my hands.
What was I doing?
I have been brought up in a respectable family. But many people do not know my dad loved another woman throughout his life. And my mom was a broken woman who withdrew deeper and deeper into her shell until she no longer lived, just existed.
Here, I was replicating the story with my life and I was the other woman.
The other woman.
How does it feel like being called that?
The villainess who broke up a family, the whore who shattered a home most probably for his money.
I still remember his wife crying, pleading, asking me to leave them in peace.
I decided to do that.
Next morning, I packed my bags while he was still sleeping, left an apology note and made an exit from our secret haven.
I looked at him long and hard before I left. I wanted to kiss his forehead but I was scared he would wake up.
That was it.
I no longer exist for him, I am sure. I have tried to build another life alone. I can’t forget but at least I am surviving, maybe moving on.
I never regretted my decision.
The rain has stopped. Pale shards of light filter through the clearing clouds. A ray falls on my hand.
I will soon hear the cuckoos sing. I will see gaily-colored butterflies sucking honey from the blossoms in my garden. I smile slightly, open the windows wider and listen to the crickets singing their twilight song.

A WEEK LONG TRIP

2011-05-05T06:52:00.000-07:00

We were a group of four going to Shillong – me, my friend and her two sisters who were seeking admission into colleges in the capital of Meghalaya. As for me, I was going to collect my degree certificates after three long years.
From the capital, we boarded a bus to Phuentsholing early morning. It was a cake-walk. Good music on our mobiles and good conversation.
On reaching the border town, we went to Jaigoan where we did some cheap shopping but the stuff we bought was good.
It was the next day that our troubles started.
The hour long journey from Phuentsholing to Alipur had us in high spirits.
Vast expanses of green meadows, lakes and elf-like straw huts with more music and laughter had not prepared us for what was coming next.
We got general tickets from Alipur to Guwahati.
For me and my friend’s sisters, this was the first time travelling by train.
We had to wait for almost two hours for the Bramaputra Express to arrive and we learnt later that it is one of the dirtiest and slowest trains in India.
Four of us had to share seats with a married couple from Guwahati.
The heat, smell, dirt, humidity and the cramped space almost had us crying.
Food and ware vendors came in proclaiming their arrival with loud chants.
We looked different from the locals so on several occasions we were cheated off money by the vendors.
The couple we were travelling with was sweet enough to tell us that and warn us (though a tad too late).
After six long hours we finally reached Guwahati and got into a sumo where a Khasi woman and her daughter were sharing the front seats.
From there, it was torture. The two women kept blabbering into their mobiles and giggling like school girls, all the way from the sumo stand to our destination (They were talking about the daughter’s boyfriend from what we could make out).
Honking trucks, dust, noise, the chatter and weariness made me throw up. The others were also having a tough time.
Finally, when we reached Shillong, we booked into a hotel which the driver recommended – Ashutosh inn, a dingy, shady place so cramped we could hardly move about.
It was too late to look for a better hotel so we had to compromise. At night, we could hear strange sounds coming from the adjacent room.
They offered tea so sweet we could have got diabetes. Moreover, they had run out of mineral water.
It was a terrible night.
The very next morning we embarked on a search for a better hotel and though expensive, we checked into Hotel Alpine.
Then began the quest for colleges for the two girls.
We walked from pillar to post, took cabs and asked around but on day one we could only get the prospectus of two well known colleges in Shillong – St. Anthony’s and St.Edmund’s.
Dead tired, we returned to the hotel, took relaxing baths and had wine.
Day two – We went to Raid Laban College, my alma mater. We talked to and got the college prospectus from a professor there. The girls decided this was it.
They got admitted and were asked to collect their ID cards in the afternoon (which they did).
Now, I had to get my degree certificates. We waited for a couple of hours. Finally, the counter opened but when the man there checked, he said my certificates had already been collected.
I was puzzled but thought that one of my previous hostel mates must have collected my certificates on my saying so and that I must have forgotten about it.
Sure enough, when I contacted the matron of the hostel I had stayed in, she said the documents were with here (sigh of relief).
Thus, our tasks were completed.
But my friend and I were talking among ourselves that had we had one more day to stay in Shillong, it would have been ideal because we wanted to explore and do some sight-seeing.
But with our limited budget, we had to return the next day, so we did.
Early morning, it was pouring cats and dogs when we booked an Alto for Guwahati.
In Guwahati, we again bought general tickets and hired a coolie to get us seats in the train going to Alipur.
The station where we were waiting was dirty and stinky. One of my friend’s sisters almost puked.
We laughed like crazy as we posed for the camera with cotton plugs in our nose.
There were some lecherous police officers making suggestive gestures at us but luckily I did not see it (my friend told me later).
Finally, our train arrived and we had to walk till the first compartment because there was such a wild stampede for seats.
We finally got into an empty compartment but it turned out that it was reserved.
We had to explain to the ticket collector and painfully fish out a few more bucks to avail the seats.
Soon, fresh green meadows and lakes and birds made their presence felt as we took pictures of each other and the scenery, munched on “jhaal muri”, spicy “motor”, and finger chips.
We heaved a sigh of relief as our train stopped at Alipur and we took a cab. A Bhutanese guy who almost got into a fight with an Indian cabbie joined us.
It was raining when we entered Phuentsholing gate (We were overjoyed when we reached Bhutan).
We headed for the hotel we had stayed in earlier – West End with a swimming pool.
After refreshing ourselves, we took dinner and more wine.
Since we had got lucky at the BoB ATM, we decided to relax the next day at Phuentsholing after our hectic tour.
The next day, we did some more shopping at Jaigoan. But since it was a Monday, the shops were closed and we could only buy from street vendors. We bargained and haggled in the scorching sun but it was worth it.
Upon returning, my friend swam while I watched. We had fresh lime and tea and sumptuous meals.
We watched TV, conversed near the swimming pool and took walks in the twilight.
At last, at bed time we had some expensive wine and I went off to sleep immediately while the others had fun.
The next morning, we boarded a bus to the capital, laughing all the way but the bus played some really good music so we weren’t bored.
The bus driver and conductor were cracking their own corny jokes and laughing while we laughed at them from the back seats.
At 4 PM, we reached Thimphu and parted ways.
And that was how our week long trip to Shillong ended.

ONE MOURNFUL SUNDAY.....

2011-04-24T02:46:00.000-07:00

It is a warm but windy Sunday afternoon.
I have finished my chores for the day and am outside in the sun warming myself while the wind combs through my hair. I have my diary before me and a pen. I am playing some soulful songs on my mobile.
I look at the city sprawling below me. Concrete buildings, people and cars…..life is moving at its pace.
Then suddenly, I ask myself: What am I doing? Where am I headed? What lies before me in the unknown future?
A sense of emptiness fills me and a brooding melancholy occupies my thoughts. Ever felt like you are not living, simply existing? Ever felt like you have run your race? There is nothing to look forward to and a few regrets to mull over.
If the world were to end now, what would I lose? Nothing. I would die happily.
No dreams, no aspirations, no hopes.
Loneliness, sadness and a mild feeling of lethargy.
What is happening to me? I feel so alone.
Like a lone observer in a metropolitan crowd.
The world is moving but I am stuck.
Life has come to a stand still for me. There is no pleasure in living and laughing.
I put on a pair of converse and plug in the headphones.
I head for a long, lonely, leisurely walk. People are staring at me. Most probably because I am wearing shorts (Damn the Bhutanese mentality!)
Cars honk and swerve by me. I don’t care. I put the same song on repeat twenty times. I like the sadness in it, the acoustics evokes feelings in me.
I have loved and lost.
Memories, guilt, regrets.
More stares and a few wolf whistles. I walk on, uncaring, unseeing.
What is this? Emotional inertia? I am tired now. I don’t feel like looking people in the eyes. I avoid gazes and walk on, looking down at the buildings, roads and new constructions and at my shoes.
Did that white lady who just passed by smile at me? I am in no mood for smiles or gaiety.
A tall, beautiful lady all dolled up, most probably for the wedding function going on by the side way passes me.
I look at my short legs (in shorts, for God’s sake!) and think would the world look different if I were a bit taller?
In an hour and a half, my mourning (pun intended) walk has ended.
I am back at home. I fix myself a cup of tea and get into bed.
I remember I am resigning on Tuesday.
And I wonder what will become of me at this rate.
Fine. I gulp down another cup of tea ( I am bloating up depressingly) and try to think of something else.
Dad is coming over tonight. He said he would cook chicken for me. That is the only saving grace.
Let’s see what happens. Let me take a day at a time.

PICKING UP THE PIECES

2011-04-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in life when you have to take a tough decision. And it isn’t easy.
Everything is picture perfect. It seems like a movie shot in progress. You are on a Caribbean cruise. The warm sunlight, the gentle breeze, the cool tumbler of refreshing drink, the lapping of the waves and then fate says:”Cut!”
What happened? I have asked myself a thousand times. And I know I made a mistake. A blunder, in fact. I am only human and I trusted myself too much.
I trusted myself not to make a mistake. I trusted myself not to waver from my principles and I failed. I failed, miserably. I was blind.
It taught me how weak I am, how fallible. It taught me man should not do what God has NOT ordained for them.
I have shed tears, I have been filled with remorse. How could I, I have asked myself numerous times.
The pieces are broken. I can’t put them back together again. It is late. But not TOO late.
I see me picking myself up and moving on. Away from the shame and sordidness of it all. I have to venture out on another path, an untrodden path but which at least my conscience solicits.
God told us to forgive our enemies. He told us to forgive ourselves, too. I am seeing a new sun in the horizon. A new future. Away from it all.
My memories make me hang my head in shame but hope beckons me with silent whispers of new glad tidings.
I am on my own now. I bid farewell to my past. I move onto a brand new future. I take a step at a time.

IN SEARCH OF AN OASIS

2011-03-27T02:30:00.000-07:00

A waste land stretches before me.
I trudge along, dying for a drop of water.
The scorching sun and parched, dry land,
The hot winds and the endless sojourn
Is taking the life out of me.
My garment is in tatters, the burning sand consumes my feet,
Flies into my bleared eyes.
There is no oasis in sight.
Rain clouds have abandoned the sky.
Yet, I stumble along, unseeing, unfeeling.
Where am I? Where have I reached?
Is that a caravan I see afar?
Tinkling of bells and the shout of travelers?
Is there life in this desert?
I no longer have the strength to go on.
My steps falter, I fall.
Is there a God? Where are you?
Help me!
Memories of the past flood my tremulous mind.
I remember the green grass, the sparkling lakes,
The verdant growth along the valleys, the sweet smelling sandal trees.
I hear the brooks singing their passing song.
Where is heaven?
Is this what I was destined for?
The heat makes me faint, I can’t bear it.
Save me before I turn into vapor.

HERE'S TO ALL SINGLE WOMEN!

2011-02-25T02:42:00.000-08:00

“How old are you?”
“27”
“Single?”
“Yup”
I am unmarried, not seeing anybody and single at 27.
And I must make a shocking (to some) confession – I have never been in a relationship with a man.
How does it feel like?
Hmmmm…..how does it feel like? I ask myself and can’t suppress a chuckle.
I have never had a romantic conversation with a man, never been gifted a rose or a packet of heart-shaped chocolates and never gone on a real date (except once with a Japanese man who asked me out for dinner but that’s another story altogether).
Do I miss all these?
Honestly, sometimes I find myself wondering how it would feel like to be seeing somebody but another part of me revels in the kind of uncomplicated, free life I lead.
I know it will always feel good to have someone there for you, especially during your low moments and times of loneliness. Sometimes you do desire companionship but then I have my own little world where I am happy being myself and doing all those things I love doing.
I get up on my own sweet time on lazy Sundays, clean up my place, do my routine or extra house-chores, read a lot of books at the same time, write, plan out my work and assignments, drop in at my next door neighbour’s, listen to Eagles, Richie Sambora and Dolly Parton, sit by the window in the afternoon sun all alone sipping a glass of green-tea and writing in my diary…….little pleasures in life. In a way I am lucky, hehehe…..
At other times, I watch the busy roads and alleys below from my apartment window, go shopping alone and buy a good book to read or a rejuvenating face-pack to pamper myself with and sometimes I sit before my lap-top and write my memoirs like this one! Then I wind up the day watching the sunset (Lucky, I have a good view from my window).
Life is good. I have friends who care for me. I have a wonderful family. I have a great boss who teases me constantly about my single status. But I love my life.
It is not that I don’t feel the need for male companionship. Sometimes, I feel my time is running out and at times pangs of loneliness do gnaw at me, especially after a bad day when I need some solace but then, I feel the other side of it balances things out.
I look forward to each new day. In fact, I feel this is one of the best phases of my life.
Maybe it just depends on which side of the fence you are.

WOMAN, WHAT ART THOU?

2010-11-14T21:27:00.000-08:00

The good, the bad and the ugly.
Bhutanese society is increasingly churning out stereotypes.
And this applies most pertinently to women.
The fairer sex, the always un-understood or misunderstood enigma, the living mystery of all times.
But evolving times and situations have given rise to various breeds of females.
Or at least that is how society sees and tags them. Take a look, girls and see if you fit in into one of these:

1.The good girl: She won’t go to parties, discotheques or clubs. She will be the do-gooder – the mousy, shy introvert. She will probably have a history of being a studious student, maybe not too bright but obedient and no boy-friends for the record. Being a homebody enhances her image. Men usually term them “sweet” and “cute” (in other words NOT “hot”). Ninety nine percent possibility to hundred is that they will attract geeks or mama’s boys for husbands who want to “take a nice (unexciting) girl back home.”

2.The vamp: A party animal, she will be into boozing and smoking. Maybe a puff of marijuana would do no harm. Will have lived through a string of boyfriends, maybe live-in relationships by the dozen which did not see the light of day. Bitching and gossiping will be her forte. As she says, she just loves to “have a good time.” Usually attracts hot-blooded males who can’t see beyond the stilettoed legs. Moves around in her own circle of friends but is usually independent, can take bold decisions and fun to be with. However, a big “no-no” for conservative males. The “good girls” self-righteously snub this type.

3.The wonder woman: Will be known for her intellect and management (or lack of it) abilities. Men hate her guts. She can boss even over MCPs (Male chauvinistic pigs) and she has her subordinates shivering in their shoes: she can be termed a “bitch” for her over-bearing ways. She is enterprising, calculative and intelligent. Can be a single mother or a divorcee.

4.The house-wife: Will be fulfilling her duties as a wife (how cheerfully, would be doubtful) but there will be no end to her tale of woes which her close friends or neighbor will have to listen to (suffer). The baby puked, hubby gave his salary to his mother again, children are getting beaten up by the big bully/ teacher at school, the baby-sitter ran away and blah, blah…(Heaven save the husband!)

5.The socialite: Will have hooked in a husband with big bucks but who usually does not know she exists. Half of her life will be spent in kitty parties and a round or two of gambling. Leads an ostentatious superficial lifestyle. Usually drives around in a Prado with dark goggles. Nearing mid-life crisis but unable to age gracefully. Usually has a toy-boy in toy.

6.The career-woman: Perhaps the most common of the young, upcoming lot. Usually a graduate. Trying to balance home, work and relationships. Trying to come in to terms with reality. Harbors big-time ambitions to do better in life (for them owning a car is one dream fulfilled).

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY (The life of Bhutanese journalists as it is)

2010-11-14T21:24:00.000-08:00

Journalists are an outspoken lot - that is what everyone believes.
Journalists are all over the place - that is what everyone says.
But what are the cardinal rules for journalists in Bhutan? Here are a few (there can be more):
1. Bhutanese journalists are always broke.
2. Bhutanese journalists are famous at infamous places like shady bars and raucous clubs.
3. Convention is unconventional for journalists.
4. Bhutanese journalists can shock prim people out of their wits, not only with their half-researched, half-baked (sometimes outrageous) stories but with their lack of propriety (in manner and attire) and loose lingo.
5. Whenever you call up a high level official, if you are lucky they will say they can’t talk to you over the phone. If you are not, they will slam down the phone to your face.
So what does a fresh out-of-college graduate, inexperienced, shy and unsure of herself do when she is suddenly thrown into the media world filled with un-proclaimed mavericks, self-proclaimed intellectuals and unabashed eccentrics? (Normalcy in the media fraternity is a virtue)
Recovering from culture shock takes a few months. Then comes the tricky part – learning the tricks of the trade. How do you do it? If the journalist is a female possessing physical charms and the person she is dealing with is a hot-blooded male, half of the way, she is guaranteed a good deal of attention. But at the end, aggression, assertiveness, writing and reporting skills (short of stealing official documents, eavesdropping and accessing secret information by other underhand means) go a long way in making you a known (notorious) journalist. Of course, not without the side effects - most bureaucrats who have to tolerate the journalist’s nosiness consider journalists a formidable foe (pest).
Meeting deadlines is another issue that is always an issue. Weeklies breed lethargy for half the week. Dailies set the adrenaline pumping.
Editors barking, reporters bunking, the hurried tapping of keyboards late evenings, hazy smoke-filled cubicles and messy rooms is the typical scenario in a Bhutanese newsroom. The trend runs amok in newsrooms, much like some unruly reporters.
The hunt for stories is an adventure to some while for others who get up from the wrong side of the bed, it is pure pain. Sources and contacts are a journalist’s livelihood, and if you can charm them over with a glass of drinks and some witty one-liners, you are guaranteed a lot more than story ideas.
Discipline is a much needed but absolutely rare quality. For most journalists, the day begins when half of the world is asleep. Late nights and drinks, gossip, blowing one’s trumpet about your so-called innate abilities though no one else seems to notice it, is part and parcel of a journalist’s social life.
But what keeps a journalist going? The craving for freedom, adventure and change. Journalists like to think of themselves as crusaders. They love to challenge beliefs. They know that what they write can change lives. It can change systems. It can bring down governments. When you write news, you become news yourself. And that all contributes to the bigger picture. That is what spurs a journalist on. That is what drives a journalist on despite mounting pressure and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. If a journalist has a family, it calls for a lot of sacrifice. Time and resources need to be divided between work and family. And often, call it the tragedy of a journalist’s life but work wins. Journalists can often turn into workaholics because they thrive on pressure and excitement which their profession provides in abundance. A journalist often appears to be an egoist, but as Ayn Rand puts it, the egoist is the most selfless creator because a whole literate society thrives on the works of a journalist who knows what to create and how to.

THE RAIN SONG

2010-08-12T08:01:00.000-07:00

Pitter patter, the rain drops fall
Thunder claps and lightning flash
Swaying trees dancing to monsoon’s breeze

Grey skies overcast with laden clouds
Swelling river roaring its rage
Puddles forming on little tread ground
Rivulets racing the stony path

Jaded green revived
By falling dew from above
Smell of damp earth
Rising like a forgotten memory

And me alone on my balcony
Cocooned in solitude and calm
Surely moments like this do no harm!

A cup of aromatic tea
And a copy of “Gitanjali”
To keep me company!

Norah Jones’ honeyed vocals
Mingling with a playful child’s shrieks
A silent spectator
Of heaven’s open flood gates

Tracing an intricate song
Of water and wind
Of seasons and cycles
Oh, for the pure joy of living!

A LESSON ON GIVING

2010-07-18T08:23:00.000-07:00

Memories.
Some rue over it. Some cry over it. Some smile over it and some thrive on it.
I have my own memories.
A host of it, actually.
Old ones. Recent ones.
Now that I have been transferred to Gelephu as a bureau correspondent for my paper, I want to look back and reflect on my bitter-sweet experiences.
I stayed at the capital for five whole months and it was a learning experience.
I shared a small room at one of my good friend’s place.
It was cramped and far from being a palace. I stayed there for more than four months.
The modest quarter was shared by the whole family.
But I gleaned some important lessons from them.
My friend and her family never ever gave me reason to feel that I was a burden on them.
I knew I was occupying their private space.
My late working hours were another concern.
But my friend’s mom who runs a small canteen was one of the best examples of diligence, perseverance, patience and caring I have ever come across.
“My own Mother Teresa,” is what my friend calls her.
I couldn’t agree more.
Then there were her sisters and cousins, the sweetest girls I have met in a long time.
Ever-ready to help, to serve.
And the camaraderie they share is commendable.
I question myself.
I was never a long-suffering person.
I am known for my quick temper and tongue.
I am impatient and often too critical even with my own family.
But I saw exemplary patience and harmony here.
I learnt that affluence and mammon cannot guarantee happiness.
There are other things that count.
That are far more priceless.
Like love and selflessness.
We crib and complain about little inconveniences when we have almost everything that we need.
Even I do.
But I realized that I need to count my blessings before I harp on what is missing in my life.
And that there are people along life’s highway who are more willing to give than to receive.

THE INNER DEMONS

2010-07-06T03:01:00.000-07:00

She sees faces and hears voices, images blending and disintegrating. She can hear whispers…intangible, mysterious and derogatory.
She sees pointing fingers, scornful eyes and sarcastic smirks.

“Mom! Dad! Where are you?” She calls out to silence.

Suddenly she drifts to an abandoned island. There are no stars, only the full moon partially hidden behind a dark cloud. There is a gust of wind and she shivers in the cold, her tattered dress the only protection.

“Where are you?” She cries out again.

She hears a cackling, coarse laughter.

“Lost and scared, cry-baby?” Voices draw nearer…then an ominous silence.

“Help!”

“There is no one to help you here.” An icy voice.

“No!” She stumbles and gets up.

She scrambles away, trying to escape the voices. But the voices are ruthless, they won’t leave. They follow her, surround her from every side.

“You can’t run away from us…”

“Get away from me!” She shouts.

“We are you yourself kid…we can’t just go away…we are part of you!” The laughter echoes.

“No! I am different…I am not like you!” She yells. “I am good!”

“Accept it, you foolish child! Accept it!” The voices return.

“You think you are good, eh?” The tone of the voices is malevolent, triumphant.

“You are just another human being and they are all fools!”

“We are here to take you,” the voices announce.

“Come now, don’t fight us,” honeyed, coaxing words.

“I won’t let you take me!” She gasps, the cold getting into her bones.

The moonlight grows dimmer. She tries to run away but a strange force paralyses her…

“There is no escape. You can’t run away from yourself…”

“Come, come…all you have to do is accept us…”

She swoons, feeling a heavy weight descending upon her frame. The voices turn into murmurs, dying slowly. Everything fades into the blackness of night. In the distance, an owl hoots.

Night merges with the day. The cold gives way to warmth as the first rays of the sun rising from the sun falls on her face.
She hears the chirping of the birds and the singing of the cicadas. She opens her eyes slowly to a new day.

TO DADDY, WITH LOVE

2010-07-06T03:00:00.000-07:00

I can see the lines on his face clearly. He looks so tired and old now. His hand trembles as he reaches out to feel the smoothness of the leaves. His body is shriveled up. He stoops when he walks. Soon I will have to buy him a walking stick, I think.

But something is different here. I am not looking at a pathetic sight. Something is not right in this supposedly sad scene. His eyes…yes, his eyes…They are gay and twinkling with mischief.

And there is a slight smile on his face. I don’t see the bitterness of suffering or the cynicism of old age.

I remember him holding my little hand, carrying me, guiding me. I see him working hard day and night to meet life’s demands and support us financially, emotionally, physically and in any other way he could.

“Apa!” I call out and rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns around and looks at me fondly. The way he looks at me shelters me with love and makes me feel like a child once again. I feel secure, protected and complete.

We walk together slowly on the little trodden path. He is not strong and sturdy now but I can see strength in his gentleness, a gentleness which can melt bones.

“You are growing up!” He says teasingly.
“Yeah, I have to! Do you think I will remain a kid?” I reply in mock anger.
“For me you are still a kid!” He laughs.
We celebrate life together. He is always there to help me, nurture me.

“I have lived my life to the fullest. Now it’s your turn,” he says.

I let the depth of his words sink in. I see the beauty of age and maturity in him. I look at him silently but he is busy gazing at a butterfly.

A BEAUTY IS BORN

2010-07-06T02:59:00.001-07:00

“Can you see it?” The boy asked the girl. He was stretching a small oval mirror before her face and prompting her to look into it.

The girl was startled for a moment; then she looked at the reflection staring back at her. There was a dark blob for a face, a mass of wild curly hair and a mouth that was neither sweet nor voluptuous.

She hid her hands in her face.
“Take it away from me,” she sobbed.

The boy clasped her hands and lifted up her tear-drenched face.
“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” he said gently.
The girl looked at him to see if he was being scornful but his eyes were flashing with sincere warmth.

All her life she had bore the brunt of being the odd one out in her family. Her mother had been a conventional beauty and her two sisters had taken after the mother. But when it came to her, she had not been blessed with the fair alabaster skin, almond eyes, tempting ruddy lips and lissome rounded limbs that the other females in her family had.

Over time the mirror had turned out to be her greatest enemy and as a growing young maiden, she had always remained in the back drop.

Then he had discovered her.

“How can you love someone so plain, so ugly?” She asked as usual.

He stood silent for a long time as if he had expected the question.

“Today I will tell you how beautiful you are to me,” he said, “I have been waiting for this.”

“Look into the mirror,” he commanded.

“See those eyes,” he said, “I have seen sublimity in those eyes. I have seen love, gentleness and passion in them. I have seen the tenderness with which they beheld the sufferings of others. I have seen fire in them
When you fought for what was right. I have seen clarity in them when you had a vision to achieve.”

“Have you noticed your smile?” He asked. “Artificial, weak smiles I have seen in many women. They are intended to create an impression but when you smile it is as if the sun has just risen and made the world aglow. Your smile is the expression of your real, true emotions. There is nothing fake about it. There is ardent warmth, vigorous pleasure in it.”

“Have you noticed the beauty of your person? Your dark skin is like gossamer. It reminds me of the night studded with stars. Your hair dances with the wind to create a cosmic rhythm, your slight figure to me is a pure pillar of strength which houses a soul myriad times fairer and more precious than a gem.”

“You are not a flower. It would wilt and wither away. You are the likeness of one engraved in a priceless stone but with the freshness and fragrance of a newly blossomed rose.”

The girl slowly raised her eyes unto the mirror. She was seeing a new person… a beautiful, radiant person. She was prized and valued by someone she loved. She had never looked or felt so beautiful. She smiled and her smile merged with that of the boy’s who took her hand. They walked away together into a world where love had bathed everything in sunshine.

Thus, a beauty was born.

A PILGRIMAGE THROUGH THE SEASONS

2010-07-06T02:58:00.001-07:00

Drops of water fall from a leaf- a steady trickle at first, then the flow abates and ends with a single limpid crystal sphere gently descending to the verdant growth on the earth below.

The rain has just stopped but grey promising clouds are still looming in the sky.

She watches the scene quietly from the window; counting the days. It seems like months, years, ages…

Once upon a time it was spring. The sunshine was warm upon her face. It threw mottled patterns on her window sill and the birds twittered to attract mates. The flowers bloomed in all brave hues spreading their heavy scents and a warm, gentle breeze brought with it glad tidings.

She could hear the promises he had made. She could hear his voice as if it were yesterday, his gruff laughter. She could feel the strength of his arms as he clasped her in a bear-hug yet there was the gentleness of his fingers on her face.

But even as she shared her little joys and sorrows with him, there was this battle going on within her- a raging battle. She could not explain it but it was there. The union of what she wanted and what she had to do, the clash between what she desired and what she believed in.

Very soon the spring faded with its sunshine and bright hopes. The warm breeze turned cold. The horizon seemed to wear a dull, gloomy look.

“Will spring ever come back?” She asked herself but her question was drowned in a flood of doubts and despair.

Then he left. All that remained of him was a host of memories. At first it was hard to understand. She thought it was hard to understand him and even harder to understand herself.

“One, two…” She counts absentmindedly. It is drizzling again. “Maybe after the monsoons…” She hopes and hums a song she does not hear herself.

The rains soon pass.

Autumn comes with its swirling winds and the courtyard is littered with dry leaves. Hope wanes. Every evening she sits by the window watching the change of season and she discovers she is changing too with time.

“Dear Diary, I feel I am growing. This pain is my tutor. I hope he is happy wherever he is. I pray there is no bitterness in the memories of our moments together,” She writes and smiles slightly as she closes her journal.

Winter brings with it the freezing cold. The rivulet near her home turns into ice and icicles dangle from the eaves of her cottage roof. Flakes of snow have fallen like pillow feathers on her courtyard and garden and along the streets, blanketing everything in pristine beauty.

She sits by the window yet again.
This time a warmth and love fills her heart despite the chill outside as she reminisces on the past year. She feels stronger because she feels neither she nor he is to blame.

She closes her eyes. “We will always be together no matter what reasons or distance separates us. We are a part of each other,” she whispers.

“It was not us. It was circumstances – circumstances that destined us to be apart. God meant it that way.”

The new spring awaits her as she sits by the window and watches the birds migrating back home. Tears trickle down her cheeks but her face is lit with a smile.

IN THE LIGHT OF A BURNING HOUSE SHE CRIED FOR HER CHILD

2010-07-06T02:55:00.000-07:00

She stares at the fire as it flickers and burns. Shadows play on her immobile features. The flames swallow the wood, crackling and hissing but she is oblivious to the noises. She possesses eyes that have seen and witnessed. Her gaze is fixed but she perceives nothing.

She hears it again like she always does…shrieks and wailing coupled with shouts and sadistic laughter. Gunshots fill the air along with sounds of glasses shattering, the trampling of hurried footsteps and the flurry of confused voices…

“Mother!” The wail again, the sound that she hears again and again, the agonized cry that haunts her endlessly in her sleep, in her dreams and in her waking hours. The last word she heard and the last word she remembers.

The cold night wind bangs the window shutter against the wall. She jerks awake from her stupor and gets up slowly. Age and suffering have made movement laborious. Limping slightly, she reaches for the window and latches it shut.

Closing her eyes, she tries to forget that she once had a family, a place, a hope, a sense of belonging.

Even after so many years the images are fresh, persistent- a terrible nightmare.

“Why did they do it?” She wants to cry, vent out her grief but her eyes are dry. She feels she cannot weep anymore.

“Will I ever forget?” The pain, the anguish. It seems as if a knife has sliced through her heart.

“Mother!” An explosion, a searing outburst of heat and a dark cloud of fuming smoke. The house was blown into pieces.

She remembers running wildly, pushing against the crazed mob of terror-stricken men, crying women and lost children, making her way to save her child.

Too late.

After that everything passed like a dream. A silent motion picture….of ruin, disaster…There was no sound, no weeping and mourning for the deceased…complete dead silence.

The streets were littered with charred and bloody corpses without names. A pungent smell of burning flesh and sulphur.

Days, months and years have passed. Today is the day that marks twenty five years of her child’s death. She never counted but she always knew. It was something that came to her automatically, like eating, drinking and sleeping.

Twenty five years of pent up grief, guilt and questioning.

“Why?” She asks, “WHY? WHY?”

She doubles up, reduced to a heap on the floor. The flood gates open. The heart rending wail emerging from her lips reaches a crescendo. She cries for her child, she cries for human suffering, she cries against the hatred and cruelty that exists in the world. She cries for the loss of love, goodness and innocence…the impending doom of the human race.
“My child, my child…” an involuntary whimper escapes her lips.

THE FORBIDDEN ESCAPE

2010-07-06T02:54:00.001-07:00

Not again.

She thinks as the slow and steady trickling tears dampen her pillow. The night has engulfed everything in darkness and the moon has cast its shadows on the curtains.

“Why me?” She asks in a wretched whisper lost in the all-encompassing silence.

Downstairs there is a slight thumping. Audible music and laughter. “They are at it again,” she clenches her teeth suppressing a sob.
“Why am I different?”

The door creaks open. “Is she asleep?” A girl’s amused voice.
“Yeah, I think so. I saw her mugging up for her final paper the whole night.” A chortle.

She wants to scream, say it is not that way. “But what is the use?”

“Miss Goody Two Shoes, Miss…” A familiar chant reverberates in her ears. From down memory lane, pictures of her childhood move like a slide show before her: a frail sickly child, nose buried in books…She hears voices that won’t let her forget… “A very good girl,” “A well behaved child, “Best student”….

“No!” She wants to yell out but her voice is just a whimper.

“Why can’t they let me be?” She tries to control the exquisite quiver of anguish that runs through her body.
“Am I the only one to blame?” She is furious now. Her breathing grows more laborious.

Rules, yes, rules did this to her. Rules at home. Rules at school. Rules in the society. Suddenly she hates her family, her friends and she hates herself. For complying. For not breaking the rules. For accepting unquestioningly. For not being brave enough.

A click.

Light streams into her half-closed eyes. “Are you sleeping?” A voice. She does not answer, pretending to be asleep.

“Leave her alone,” another voice.
“She is queer, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, a sad little thing, but then she has the best brains. One up against us, right?”
“Hmm…I agree. A poor little thing. But can’t blame her too. You know what the world can do to people but daresay she isn’t affected.”

She holds her breath till the retreating steps are out of hearing.

“I don’t need your sympathy, damn you! I hate you! I hate you all!” She almost blurts out but controls it by biting her lips.

“This will be the last,” she is determined. Tonight she would end it all.

She looks at the empty bottle of sleeping pills on the table and relaxes.

The clock strikes midnight.

Drowsiness slowly creeps into her eyes. A gentle languor overcomes her tense body. Her eyelids close.
Then she finds herself in a different world. She is with the others, lots of them- having fun, laughing, whooping, dancing.

Back in her room, the moon light streams full on her face. A slight smile plays on her lips as she escapes and slips slowly into the unknown depths of her beautiful dream, for eternity.

Downstairs the music blares loudly. There are more shrieks and laughter.

CAN YOU HEAR THEM CRY PART II

2010-07-06T01:19:00.000-07:00

Today I visited a place.
It was different.
From the places that I have visited in the past.
It was a complete diversion.
From the luxury hotel I have been staying in at Chennai.
The place was Rajiv Gandhi Nagar- a slum on the city beach inhabited by a community of fishermen and their families.
The vast sea and the beach were there.
But instead of the sense of beauty and sublimity that such a setting would usually inspire, desolation loomed large in the hot, humid horizon.
A settlement of dingy shanties made of crude materials; filth and garbage piled up by the road, stench emanating from it, starved dogs and flies hovering around, murky puddles, stuffy, dark huts, half naked children and emaciated looking aged people.
One of the areas affected by the Tsunami six years ago, killing 60 from the community and causing massive structural damages.
The fishermen and their families live in the most sordid conditions dreaming of a better life which does not seem to be materializing.
They are expecting the government to build them proper homes.
They don’t have access to clean drinking water so they have to consume brackish water.
They have no toilets or sanitation facilities.
Interestingly, according to the leader of the fishermen, the government announced the state budget but nothing was mentioned about their rehabilitation.
For the last 45 days, the fishermen could not go about their business because it was the underwater breeding period and the government paid a compensation of a measly Rs 750 for the whole period (the cost of a fishing net being Rs 8,000).
Smaller examples of suffering:
A 60 year old widow diabetic and suffering from an eye complication after a wave hit her desperate to get help talks to a so called journalist who swindles money off her.
Three families share a single hut- the men folk sleep on the beach at night.
A young man claims he drowns his sorrows over his hopeless situation in alcohol.
Stories of poverty. Stories of want. Stories of exploitation.
We hear them every day. We are bombarded with such news by every newspaper, TV and radio channel.
Stories from all around the world, near or far.
The danger is- we have become numb to the effect.
It is terrifying.
We are so overwhelmed by stories that we have become insensitive to issues.
My other journalist friends stood at a distance talking to the slum dwellers.
We had come to ‘experience the other side of life.’
I stood and talked to the slum children who had stars in their eyes and wide, ready smiles greeting me.
I smiled back and patted their faces.
How genuine was my smile?
How genuine were my sentiments of solidarity?
Was I thinking of the AC bus or a relaxing, cold shower back at the hotel?
What about high ideals of ‘changing the world?’
Or making a difference in society?
Sometimes guilt is good. It prompts us to action. In little or big ways.
We tend to become so accustomed to a cushy life that we forget.
We forget how privileged we are. We forget to appreciate. We forget to be grateful.
“I want to complete IAS,” says a scrawny little girl with pigtails who has been fortunate enough to be enrolled in a nursery school. The other kids surround me and extend their hands to me in warm greeting and attempting to communicate with me in broken English.
Hope- stuff that dreams are made of.
These kids may or may not be aware of the extent of their deprivation.
Yet they hope. They have dreams.
Do we have a duty here? A calling?
Or are we just hypocrites?
Talking about spiraling poverty rates and famines during socialite dinners?
Clucking our tongues sympathetically and making high claims of altruism and charity while living a life of inertia?
At least don’t pretend if all you can do is talk.
Don’t pretend that you care if you don’t.
It is very important to look within yourself and check your motives, even when you give.
Actions are more important than words but then the thought behind the action is what counts the most.
I can’t claim to change the world.
But I can change myself. And that is where it all begins.
That is half the battle won. The other half depends on what direction you channel the energies of the changed you.
Maybe that is what making a difference means after all.

CAN YOU HEAR THEM CRY

2010-07-06T01:17:00.000-07:00

We don’t always realize how lucky we are.

This is the thought that flashed across my mind as I sat listening to P. Sainath’s talk on poverty and exploitation last night.

P. Sainath- the rural affairs editor of The Hindu, and the famous author of “Everybody loves a good drought,” who has travelled widely and reported extensively on impoverished and deprived sections of the Indian society.

He spoke of the ‘rotating hunger’ among Rajasthani tribes where family members take turns to eat to their hearts’ content while the others virtually starve so that the ones who eat their fill can go out and work the next day. The following day, the members who have to go out and earn for the next meal would again eat satisfactorily while the others would eat the minimum amount possible. This is how they struggle against hunger and shortage of food.
“People can’t eat more than there is,” said P.Sainath.

He narrated another incidence where Nepali rickshaw pullers from Mussouri would pull rickshaws 30-40 kilometres away and not being able to afford the bus-fare back home would walk from nearby Uttar Pradesh for 8-9 days.

He spoke of septuagenarians breaking stones in 40+ degree Celsius heat because they could not afford the most menial meal due to meager pension and food inflation.

He spoke of widows having a tough time getting employment in construction sites at their own in-laws’ society because of ostracization.

“The least-nourished people have to do the toughest labour,” he said, citing an example where 12-13 year old girls draped themselves up in extra large sarees so that they would appear older than their age and get work requiring them to dig deep craters in heat so scorching that water had to be poured on the dry, hard, parched earth before digging if they had to make any head way.
“Think, how atrociously cruel it is,” he said.

“And girls are more emaciated than boys because mothers in Indian society feed the boys first and better,” he pointed out. A case he gave was of a certain locality where people were falling sick after consuming crabs from a tank. It turned out that chemical waste from certain factories were seeping into the tank and the crabs which absorbed it became poisonous. But interestingly, only the young males were getting sick. Why? Because the female-folk in the families were not given the chance to partake of the nourishing delicacy.

Come back to Bhutan.

The so-called land of Gross National Happiness.

Maybe we don’t see the shocking levels of poverty and deprivation as in India and elsewhere.

But that does not mean poverty is non-existent in the country.

Think farmers. Think labourers. Think menial workers. Think people who have to survive on the minimum wage rate.

Then think yourself.

Ever appreciated the fact that you are well fed, well clothed, educated and living a life millions around the world would only dream of?
And, this is not altruism, but ever paused a while to really FEEL the suffering of someone deprived and suffering from want, even of the most basic amenities?

Agreed, we can’t save the whole world, but ever given yourself the task of at least FEELING the burden of someone else in need? Because, it is from what you really feel that action and humility arises. Not a condescending, gloating feeling of superiority but real empathy which allows them better dignity than pity or sympathy. The understanding that they are also human, in howsoever degrading a situation they may live.

P.Sainath said something which really touched me.

Every once in a while, “just to remind himself” what constitutes human dignity and how our fellow human beings all around are suffering, he goes to “break stones” too.

“Try it,” he challenged, “and you will write the story differently.”

WHY DO THESE TEAR DROPS FALL?

2010-07-03T00:40:00.001-07:00

I ask myself for the umpteenth time…why is sadness engrained in me? I would like to believe I am a happy person because I am keenly aware that I am lucky to be what I am and lucky to have what I have….I am not an abandoned orphan nor am I friendless. I have been lucky to get an education and I am not among the starving millions of unfortunate people around the world dying from bodily hunger, diseases or unsatisfied needs…I KNOW I am lucky, even blessed. Then why? I don’t want to place myself on a pedestal or set off on an ego ride but I can’t seem to understand myself. I am an enigma to myself. The more I try to explore the hidden recesses of my mind, the unexplored aspects of my personality, the more I ponder over myself, my character and nature, even obsessively, I can’t seem to figure myself out. At times I feel I know myself so well and almost feel smug about it but during moments I experience such as this, flashes in the timeline, I realize the hollowness of my contentment with the self-knowledge I feel I have.

Then what is my problem? What disturbs me? I don’t know….sadness, melancholy….what is it? Everything I see, I think of, remember, makes me SAD….not a heart-wrenching pain, not grief which produces wails and anguish, not unbearable torture…..but a GENTLE pain, a wistfulness, a yearning, a longing……nostalgia??? Even beauty produces pain in me. Am I abnormal? Don’t I have the capacity to be happy and enjoy life? But I haven’t forgotten to smile, laugh, crack jokes…I have kept my sense of humour more or less intact, then what is wrong here?
Or is something at all wrong? Hmmm….soul-searching.

Something as mundane as sighting a wild flower I used to pluck with friends during idyllic childhood days, or seeing an old beaten track while on a bus-ride, or smelling damp earth on a rainy afternoon or the whiff of pine wood brought by a passing breeze produces a thousand and one feelings in me….myriad, mixed emotions, and sadness is one of them.
Sometimes I feel scared….I ask myself if I am I addicted to negativism. But is this negativism? Black- holed depression? Psychosis? But this emotion is almost pleasurable though it is sad…it is like looking at the beautiful starlit night and longing to fly towards its vast expanse to explore its mysterious depths…a desire, a longing, a yearning for fulfillment…..

Do I sound crazy, folks?? ( i don't blame you if you think I do).

THE KATHMANDU EXPERIENCE

2010-07-03T00:38:00.000-07:00

Flying to Kathmandu was the first time I was literally flying. Excited, I got up at four in the morning and set about with my last minute tasks. My friend who was also attending the workshop picked me up at six whereupon we drove towards Paro airport.

It was a fun flight- floating above the clouds which spread below me like a mobile feather bed. I could see the changing landscape and snow capped mountains. As our destination approached, a whole new civilization sprawled before our view, welcoming us.

Completing formalities at the airport, we were received by a porter with a placard. After taking us to a waiting cabbie, he demanded a hundred bucks but wore a disappointed look as l shooed him off with just ten.

We reached the hotel and were shown to our rooms. I was praying that I would get an amicable room-mate. I need not have worried. My room mate was an extremely nice girl from India, originally from Tibet. We clicked instantly.

The next day, our workshop started at the Panos- South Asia office. Twenty three of us from various countries like Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Sri- Lanka and of course Bhutan were present. Starting with introductions, we slowly broke the ice.

Classes were fun most of the time but at times it did get tedious. So we usually took breaks for merry-making. Stolen glances, laughter, yawns, howls and questions were usual in the agenda.

Among the resource persons, a talk by eminent environmentalist turned journalist Kunda Dixit was the icing on the cake. I was simply floored by his intellect and charismatic personality. “Wow!” was all I could think. Later, in the privacy of our hotel room, my room-mate and I discussed our secret crushes, giggling like school-girls.

Talking about crushes, several guys who attended the work shop were going through heart-ache. A senior Pakistani participant was divorced (maybe that was the reason why he could not keep his hands to himself when he was in the company of females), a young brain from Delhi and a soft-spoken guy from Bangladesh had just broken up with their sweet-hearts. But amongst us was a happy new father also who proudly showed us his baby’s picture.

We laughed at another Pakistani guy who always called me and my Bhutanese friend Cambodians by mistake. Then there was this guy from Guwahati who relentlessly and over generously urged us to visit his place back home where he said he would play host and serve us drinks. Another peculiar character was one of the Panos coordinators who asked me- “How are you?” thrice a day, everyday.

There were only three women in the workshop including me. Both the others were married. So I enjoyed the attention thoroughly! (Or was I imagining things?!)

One night, I mixed soft drinks with coffee and ended up with a bad tummy-ache. The next day I could not attend the workshop. In bed the whole day, I broke down feeling weak and home sick. But the concern my fellow participants showed was touching and luckily I recovered the following day.

Another night we had a dinner reception at a Russian restaurant. A cultural programme supplemented the free flowing drinks and sumptuous food. Much too happily, the guys downed countless little clay bowls of local wine. The excitement charged evening ended with a rowdy bus ride back to the hotel and intoxicated men bawling their lungs out.

Company and food were good. And shopping and travelling in the evenings were even better. We had a blast every day.

As the week long work-shop approached to its end, we exchanged our good-byes and shared gifts, time and tears.

This worth-while experience is something I will always cherish and look back at with fondness. I learned how little I really knew and it fired me with zeal to learn and see more..….it sure is a wide, interesting world out there.

ONCE UPON A TIME...

2010-07-03T00:37:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. A girl with pig-tails and a big teddy bear. Her mother bought her chocolates and dolls every time she went to town. Her dad bought her fairytale books every time he went out of town. She read stories till late night. Every time before going to bed she would look out of the window, count the stars and muse over the moon.
While sleeping in her cozy little bed, she would dream of delicate fairies, exotic lands and beautiful princesses. She would see knights in shining armor fighting the dragons and evil sorcerers. She would dream of dashing princes going down on their knees and claiming the hands of the lovely maidens.
The little girl lived in a world she could call her own.
As she grew up, she gradually came out of her childish dreams She began to attend school, deal with the daily routine of studying, mingling with her peers. She started to have new feelings, newer aspirations and ambitions. But a part of her still remained in the world of the fairytales.
After that, her bubble burst. Faced with situations she had never expected and circumstances that she had never encountered before, she withdrew into her shell. It never occurred to her that this was all a part of growing up, learning.
Time passed. Now she was a young maiden. She was forced to come out of her shell. She went out into the world. She met people- some seemingly nice, some seemingly bad. She got into situations that demanded careful decisions and called for sensible judgment.
She saw, she experienced, she fought, she accepted. She grew up.
But now she is at a cross-roads. There are two paths before her.
One path offers instant gratification. It seems so right to follow this path, so perfect….at the moment. The way is easy to tread. You could blindfold yourself and tread this path….you would not see the final implications but you would find it just so easy.
Blind to everything, you would not care about your own principles, the feelings of other innocent people whom you may hurt in the process, just because you want to be happy. But, it would take a lion’s share of willpower NOT to take this way.
On the other hand, there is this path….filled with thorns and brambles…there are pot-holes, lots of them. The thought of walking this way is fearsome…Every time she thinks of what she has to forego in order to walk this way, she trembles. But she knows that an untroubled conscience is one of the greatest gifts in life.
She wants to exercise her maturity and sensibility here but the confusion is so overpowering….it is deadening her senses…..
I saw her one night. She was sitting on the steps leading to her house…..looking at the stars and the moon like she used to when she was a child …searching for an answer to her predicament.
Do you have an answer for her???

MY INNER BATTLES

2010-07-03T00:35:00.000-07:00

There is so much hidden inside me that I cannot show. I go through different phases and for each phase I have a different face.

I can't understand myself so I can't really expect other people to understand me. And no, no romanticizing out here. It is not like those scary movies or books where you have a split or multiple personality disorder and go around making life miserable for people or become a psychopathic killer. It is more about the inner conflict...the battle within.

You know you are not doing the right thing yet you keep on doing it. You know you are doing the right thing yet your whole being rebels against it. You want to escape from reality. You are a tortured soul. You want to be stranded on an island. And the next moment a flicker of hope arises. You perceive it with some joy, some anticipation but the moment passes and you are again left with the crumbling remains of your unfulfilled dreams.

I may sound like a depressed maniac but there is this thing within me... I want to pour it all out in writing but I can only manage to do it in some part...I want to vent it all out... I want to purify my soul, my heart... I don't want to keep anything within...I want to start on a clean slate...But I know it doesn't work that way.

The past haunts me, the present troubles me and the future beckons me with some promise but are these promises really meant to be fulfilled in my life? I have nothing to complain about, no one to hate or keep a grudge against....I don't know if that is happiness but I am longing for escape...Not escape as in death... I want to be free of myself and my complications...I know I am creating them. But I guess every one of us is complex... there is hardly a simple human being in the true sense of the word.
Folks, please don't misunderstand me. I am a very normal and a very ordinary person...the only thing is that my inner battles which I experience every day of my life makes me sound a bit too .....whatever that maybe. Don't you feel the same sometimes??

LOVING YOU

2010-07-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

Maybe loving someone was never this strange.
Here I sit alone in a room, soft melody playing in the background.
I am thousands of miles away from home, yet he is with me.
A tangible presence, so near I can almost touch him.
His memories as sweet as the first rains falling on parched soil, or the fragrance of drenched mud or the aroma wafting from blossoms dripping nectar.
He is in every breath of air I take in, in every beat of my heart.
Distance means nothing.
Even his indifference means nothing.
Human beings were born to love and be loved.
If the latter cannot find fulfillment, at least the former can.
We cannot force someone to love but we have the freedom to love.
However painful it may be. However futile it may seem.
A fool’s paradise? Maybe. But even a fool has the right to live.
A right to happiness.
Divine draughts of poisoned water, as someone aptly put it.
I thirst. But there is no quenching.
Sometimes loving someone is the greatest irony.
You love, you survive on his memories, and you find meaning in life.
But you can never be with him.
You just feel him, see him, love him and love him……
Hoping that one fine day your wait will be rewarded.
There is nothing on which to hope.
Yet you just hope, wait and love
Because ultimately even if love fails to accomplish the desired end
You never lose by loving.

LOVING AGAIN

2010-07-03T00:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you find things where they are least expected.

Like tragedies, miracles, and opportunities. Like hope, friendship, happiness and ……love. Who would have thought…? How could I have imagined….? Is this just an escapist illusion? Or maybe a sweet delusion?

Can I call it love? I can never brush it off as just a casual encounter, a brief escapade…..those days and nights filled with ordinary yet special moments, those fresh effusive feelings, the gentle jabbing and natural bubbliness, secret shared jokes and chuckles, shy downcast-eye smiles, the trace of a slight dimple….there was no staring at the moon, no extravagant promises made for the future, not a word of commitment, yet the moment was there…..captured against the expanse and reality of time and the brisk movement of daily life- like a master piece carved in exquisite gem, like the breathing, living words of soulful poetry, as if God was watching us at that precise moment through a telescope and zooming in on us…..was that love?

I have been through my share of heart ache but the charm of falling in love again, risking your sentiments, laying your heart bare for someone to write upon, making yourself vulnerable to someone you want to share everything with…..cannot be underestimated. Love does that, you see….the ticking and working, the intricacies and subtleties of human hearts can hardly be fathomed…No scientist or thinker has managed to do that…apart from churning out physiological, psychological and philosophical concepts or so I think.

We were not meant to be but we were. It was like fatal fatalism. Our paths were star-crossed but we were together still. One day we would part, both of us knew that, but it did not matter. What mattered was that we had reached out to each other, gone beyond the cursory. It was a beautiful feeling. Our hearts, nature, and words warmed us to each other, touched our souls. It was like watching a ballet….grace and delicacy on tip-toes, like sighting a rainbow after a thunder storm- the view had never been clearer.

I wonder how it happened. I never suspected it. And I never thought myself capable of that….but it happened. It just happened. And there I was, holding onto the moment….living it, treasuring it because it was fleeting…it would pass away. There was no room for permanence but at least it was there for sometime. And you always cherish and value something or someone more if it lasts less.

And now here I am, once again alone, but there is no bitterness or sorrow in me…I loved and I lost but not in the usual sense of the word. There was no pact between us, no agreement, no promises or compromises….it happened, was lovely and enriching while it lasted and ended not in tears or rancor but with a tender, soft understanding and acceptance of fate which could not be altered.

And I am ready to love again.

CHILDREN OF HEAVEN

2010-07-02T11:12:00.000-07:00

I was never a child-lover and I don’t claim to be one right now.
I remember getting irritated with a nephew of mine because he walked all over the place including my freshly laundered bed-cover with shoes on and his mom said nothing so I concluded he was a spoilt child.
I never had to change diapers or nurse nappy rashes because my two younger half-siblings were raised in a different home. And I am not married so I don’t have kids of my own.
I was never familiar with baby-talk or lullabies. I still don’t know how infants should be fed or weaned.
But as I grew up into a young woman (lady?) I started liking kids. “Adoring” is too strong a word. I just started liking them. I don’t know how, when and why (Maternal instinct?).
I love those wide, innocent eyes, the round, dimpled limbs, the toothless smile, their lisping chatter, their sprightliness (if they are not too mischievous).
I love talking to them, teasing them, and once in a while when I am in a wild mood, playing with them.
I have never done a crash course on child psychology but I think I understand kids pretty well and they understand me, too.
When you like them genuinely, they return the affection and that is what makes it so worthwhile.

My maternal uncle’s kids run into my arms whenever I visit them. (Sigh) These moments make life worthwhile.
One of my cousin sister’s son watched me with huge, imploring eyes as I turned to leave as if pleading me to stay behind and play a little while longer with him. I felt an irresistible urge to gather him in my arms and kiss him but I controlled myself.
Even the “naughty” nephew I mentioned is a cutie. He is round all over. And simply brilliant (he is always on a computer). Maybe he will outgrow his “naughtiness” with time.
Okay, I love kids and they (hopefully) love me. But I don’t indulge their every whim. I know when they should be appeased and when a “No” should be a resounding “No.”
And I know they respect me for it. Maybe even love me more.
One day, I went to the Swiss Bakery. I had an appointment with someone and was waiting when suddenly a group of maybe 5-6 little girls entered and started ordering for some goodies.
I called one to me, a cute little girl with a ready smile and asked her whereabouts. Then the group settled down on the sofa next to me.
They had ordered éclairs and maybe hamburgers (I don’t remember exactly). And “Pepsi.” I made small talk. They warmed up to me in no time (innocent beings).
Then I said: “Pepsi is not good for kids like you. Why don’t you take milk or fruit juice?” Not in the way adults usually speak. Just a suggestion.
They did not say anything but going by their facial expressions I knew they were listening.
They asked me questions. I answered them.
Suddenly the door opens and a Black woman enters. She must be a tourist. Her corpulent figure is covered in a pair of tight jeans and a flowery top. The girls burst out laughing. They are highly amused.
I make funny faces at them. And smile secret smiles.
The woman leaves. I ask them why they were laughing.
One says: “Her bottom is huge.”
Another quips: “Her hair is like Maggi.”
A bout of giggling ensues.
I then say quietly: “It is not good to laugh at other people.”
I look at their down-cast faces. Their eyes are lowered.
I ask gently: “Would you like it if others laughed at you?”
Silence.
Then I give the final comment: “Funny looking people have problems.”
I know they have learnt a lesson so I brighten up and ask them if they would like to have anything else. The camaraderie resumes.
Suddenly, the door opens and a fashionable woman with a weird hair-do enters. The girls burst out laughing.
I can’t suppress a smile. I get up to pay my bill and turn to look at them:
“Remember what I said, girls?”
They are already running out almost shrieking with laughter. I run out, too.
Another incident. My uncle’s little son is a gentle spirit but one day he was acting difficult. He would not put on his slippers. I coaxed him but he would not listen. I went to my room and he followed. He was trying to play with me. “Don’t come here. You have not put on your slippers,” I told him in mock-anger. He went to the next room and started crying. Uncle lifted him up. I went there and gathered him in my arms.
“I am sorry. Please put on your slippers,” I said.
The stubborn little guy still refused but such incidences tell them what they should do and what they should not. I believe it remains in their sub-consciousness and will help them to be better-behaved in the future.
Next I have a bubbly, sweet cousin sister. She will be in Class X this year.
She adores me.
Once she told me that she is scared of losing me.
I prod her to study and do well academically. I ask her to read and when she told me that she likes funny, romantic and horror novels I bought her one from each genre.
She watches TV excessively. I told her it is not good. I told her to watch TV only till 10 PM. I told her reading has far more benefits.
She listened. Why? Because I was not commanding her. Just reasoning with her. Giving her options. Moreover she trusts me and my advice because I treat her like a good friend and confidante. Occasionally, I treat her to chocolate (she is still a kid).
So you see, sometimes to live with children and make them listen you get into their shoes and become a child yourself if needed. It pays.

LAUGHING AWAY TO LIFE…….

2010-07-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

Laughing has never been this better…..it starts as a mild tremor in the body, spreads slowly till it starts shaking it convulsively and then often ends with the volcanic eruption of loud laughter rocking the whole frame.

I am silly if silliness means laughing at the most incongruous of reasons….I am stupid if stupidity means asking the simplest of questions just because I want to know the answer or because I am curious, I am immature if immaturity is letting go of myself or behaving like a kid because I am just like that…..

Some things in life you can’t enjoy by doing…you enjoy simply by being.

I don’t know why….I find humour in the simplest of things….a flashing expression or even a seemingly innocent phrase or funny incident makes me go into splits; often hysterics and I remember them at the most inappropriate moments so I have a hard time suppressing my laughter and protecting my image of sanity.

I have to repress smiles all the time because I know if I give full vent to my rather unusual sense of humour in public, then I am really a goner. People will think I have flipped the lid.

My recent trip to Delhi had me burning a lot of calories because I was laughing like crazy. Not all the time. I had my low moments (come on, I am also human). But the light moments, my good acquaintances and the new learning experiences made up for all the tears I shed, I guess.

Like I am curiously absent-minded. I don’t know whether this happens with others or I am just making a big deal out of nothing but there were these soup spoons placed alongside soup-bowls and plates. Our cutlery was already at the table. And when I had served my food on the plate, I picked up the big round headed spoon and marched to my table. Only when I got there, I noticed and I would have forgotten about it but the next day I did the same thing and even went a step further- I was actually eating with it. You know I found it so hilarious.

Another incident I still remember was what I call the “desert disaster.” I wanted to have desert during a high level luncheon and I went to the podium and was searching for it. But I just could not find it and I was having a tough time keeping a straight face when a particularly dignified looking figure in a uniform caught my eye and asked me- “You seem to be looking everywhere.”
I was blushing when I said wryly “I can’t exactly seem to be finding the desert,” because I did not have anything better to say and I could not summon up the presence of mind to make up a smart reason at the crux of the moment. I don’t know if the dignitary thought I was a simpleton but he was kind enough to guide me to the desert table. I collected my desert as fast as possible and was ready to flee to my table when someone asked me-“Running away?” I was in such a hurry to get away that I did not even look up to see who had passed the remark. I just fled the scene and I will never know who the Good Samaritan was. I mean it is very funny if you consider the situation I was in. A novice learning and you know, the little hiccups she faces which when she looks back she can laugh at in the future.

Another incident which I found particularly funny- I was watching television at the embassy with my friends when a dignitary and a colleague of mine entered the room. They went behind me and I was not facing them. I got up to go away when I heard a dead-pan voice saying-“You leaving?”

I thought it was the officer who was speaking to me. Without turning I just said “Yes sir, I am going. Good night.” Then when I suddenly turned back, you should have seen the look on my friend’s face. It was just precious. The Chesire cat grin with amused oriental eyes (if he reads this, he will crucify me). And I could not think of a better response than just keeping a poker face and quipping-“Oh, I thought it was you, sir. It turned out to be my friend.” Then I marched stiffly to the door, shut it and back at my own room I confided in my friend and we broke into endless stifled giggles because the guys were just next door.

Numerous incidents like these happened and I just sensed the humour of the situation. I laughed and laughed and I laughed. It made my sides ache. It gave me crow’s feet. But I don’t mind. I just want to throw back my head and let out all my mirth. Joie de vivre.

I want to feel the wind on my face. I want to watch children play. I want to sit alone somewhere, maybe under a tree and contemplate life or read a good book. I want to learn even if I appear foolish. I want to be free enough to be myself. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I am not.

But in some company and with some people you can’t always be yourself, even if you are a free spirit. Your level of comfort counts. And it is good to exercise decorum and discipline when situation demands it. It develops self restraint, gives you time to observe, interact and gives you broader understanding of life. But then if you are obsessed with rules and let it dictate personal image and perception, if you can’t think for yourself, if you don’t exercise a certain amount of detachment and independence, then you are having a problem. You are living but not as yourself. And you always know which rules bind you and which doesn’t. The right rules make you free enough to be happy.

HOW TO TREAT A WOMAN

2010-07-02T11:10:00.001-07:00

Listen up, men. Listen to us, women. We find men who listen special because for a woman the easiest way to un-burden herself is by communicating. We know you would rather fix a leaking faucet or watch a football match with your buddies, we also understand that you like your guys’ night out and you have a major problem with “opening up,” but sometimes it does good to think over and understand why a woman feels and acts the way she does. You think they are complicated? Good. All the more reason to read this little note. But the more important reason is because without women you are lost creatures just as without men we feel incomplete. Grinning at the last admission? You can but let us get on with this.

Women want to feel special and cherished by their men. They love surprises BUT what counts even more is the intention behind it.

Surprising her with flowers on her birthday when you know she is celebrating it alone will make her feel more special than you gifting her a diamond (!!!) bracelet just because you want to show off that you can afford to.

Just telling her she is attractive because you find her really so is more appealing than telling her that she is stunningly gorgeous in an attempt to flatter her. A woman is not stupid. She can see how sincere you her.

Appreciating the fact that she is intelligent, capable of taking decisions and managing crisis and thus giving her due respect will make her feel more special than you ogling at her legs or drooling over her vital stats. Of course, however efficient she may be, sometimes she needs help from you….a little pampering does not hurt.

You may think women are clingy and crave attention all the time. Wrong. Women also need space. They need space to develop themselves, think things over, put things into perspective and last but not least go out with friends. They will appreciate it if you don’t act possessive, as if you own them. I say possessive, not protective. Protectiveness makes us feel cherished.

Don’t think a woman is dumb because she can’t discuss guy things. She may be an expert in her own areas which are beyond you. Surely you don’t want us to think you are stupid just because you can’t knit a pair of socks, do you? And there ARE some women who are brilliant in areas you pride yourself to be undisputed. Maybe she just does not want to make it too obvious.

And when a woman starts distancing herself from you after you have been through particularly good times, don’t always think she is acting pricey. If she is distancing herself after bad times don’t always think she is getting back at you.

You need to understand that she may just be trying to move on…She may have absolutely no ill feelings toward you. She is not trying to prove anything to you. She may just be trying to protect herself…and that is instinctive.

Finally if you have found THE WOMAN for you- the one who makes you skip a heart beat even in old track pants and a lousy sweat shirt, NEVER EVER let her go. It is real, real hard for a man to come across the right woman as it is for a woman to find the man of her dreams so don’t take chances. Love her, cherish her, be loyal to her. Prove that you are worthy of her.

Women love sensitive men. They are not sissies. There is a difference between sissies and sensitive men. Sissies cry for the wrong reasons. Sensitive men are not afraid to cry for the right reasons.

HELP!!!

2010-07-02T11:09:00.001-07:00

Lies, deception, politics, lechery, debasement, ego, perversion, hypocrisy, vulgarity.
Free flowing liquor, ideals gone up in hazy cigarette smoke, dingy bars and shady pubs, loud raucous laughter and leers.
Curses and cuss words.
Welcome to my present world.
People whom you look up to fail you.
People whom you trust let you down.
People whom you love don’t care.
Is this even ‘my’ world?
I am alienated from myself.
I no longer am myself.
I am being drawn into a world I had only heard of.
And the scary part is I am getting attracted to it.
What the hell is happening?
It is as if a sheet of virgin paper is being blotted.
No, I am not glorifying myself.
But a world where ideals are considered trash
And principles are scoffed at
Where morality is considered old fashioned?
NO, I protest.
I don’t belong here.
I loathe this world and I loathe myself.
I loathe what I am becoming.
I loathe what I have become.
I try to clutch onto the last remnant of hope.
I gasp for a breath of fresh air.
No relief.
I need to save myself.
I need to tear away.
I need to go away somewhere.
Some place where I can be sane.
Some place where I am unburdened
By the struggle to keep myself afloat
On the raging waters, swirling, forming an eddy
Around me, trying to drown me.
I must breathe.
Help.
I feel hot, pulsating heat
I hear harsh breathing
I hear voices, mocking, insulting.
I see smirks and twisted smiles
Winking eyes and deceptive gestures.
I cry out loud.
They surround me.
They are closing in.
I tremble.
My legs are jelly, my heart thumps
My voice is a whimper.
Someone help me!
GOD! Are you there?
Rescue me!
Before I turn insane!
Before my brains burst.
Before I sell my soul to the Devil.

BUMTHANG, CHILDHOOD AND TOM SAWYER

2010-07-02T11:08:00.001-07:00

I have fond memories associated with Bumthang and this is not only because it is a place at once pristinely beautiful and vibrant. Some of the happiest memories I have are associated with it, my most idyllic childhood days being spent there.

I still remember those days- as fresh as the chilly nip in the air, the whistling of the wind through the pine jungles and the sparkling icicles on the roof eaves melting in the warm winter sun.

I never realized the enormity then of their words when elders said that childhood was the best phase in a person’s life. I was too busy in my carefree, make-believe world. Even as a growing teenager I wasn’t convinced because I was entering an exciting phase in life and could not wait to grow up. As I neared adulthood, I was too busy preparing for the life of an adult.

But now I have crossed these phases. I am 25 (mid-life crisis?) and fairly well settled. I am an independent working woman, I love my job, I have a car (though I still have to master the art of reversing without getting the tyre into a ditch somewhere) and I have a loving family always forthcoming with their support but then they have faded into the back ground now, as it so happens when you grow up and get on with a life which you call your own (sadly).

And now that I am fairly mature and can settle down into moments of quiet introspection without getting carried away by extreme emotional tides (except occasionally) unlike those painful, teary and fiery withdrawals into yourself common during raging hormonal teenage years, I can look back at life and even manage a smile.

A wry smile. An amused smile. A wistful smile. A sad smile. A fond smile. Many a times a sunny smile.

And when childhood memories beckon me, when the sights, sounds and smells of yore pervade my being, my senses, I am transported once again to the world I once belonged -the world of nicked fingers and bruised knees but a mom ever ready with first aid, a world of Tinkle comics and Cadbury, a world of rosy cheeks- the result of playing in the sun and running in the autumn breeze chasing falling leaves, a world where handing a toffee was an easy way to reconcile after a tiff.

I remember we used to live in a beautiful, spacious house in Lama Goenpa. A double storied structure- partly wood and partly concrete, it stood at the base of the rolling wooded hills yet offering a satisfactory view of what was going on below up to quite a distance.

We had a chicken coop and a kitchen garden with a green house. There was a compound to play in and lots of neighbourhood kids. What more could we ask for?

Very soon, I had joined the other kids on “skating sprees” in the woods. “Skating” simply meant riding down the slope made slippery with dry brown pine needles on wood planks with polished bases to aid the skate down hill. Often we toppled down peeling the skin on our knee caps or knuckles but it was fun alright.

Then playing “hide and seek,” “Am I right,” “rubber band,” or skipping rope and in more adventurous moods, “super heroes(iones)” and “ninjas” (too many cartoons and action movies, I daresay).

Then, one fine day I had a bright idea. I was inspired to form a “secret club” after reading Enid Blyton’s “Secret Seven Society.” Producing my colour pens, scissors and paper, I set to work and soon I had made membership badges for my would-be “secret club members” of which of course and most obviously I would be the leader!

I remember going for picnics too. Once we had cooked “wai-wai” but which could not exactly be termed palatable because the egg we had stirred in was still raw! Another picnic had us eating almost uncooked rice because of our premature culinary skills (or the lack of it).

But as a child I was very interested in cooking. I remember trying to prepare a sweet dish from a “Milk-Maid” recipe-book I had managed to salvage from somewhere and if I remember correctly, the household devoured it! (Should I then say that I was a natural in the kitchen? Ahem! Ha, ha…To be honest, my elders helped me with it. They could not trust me, not at that age!)

Then there was school. Dressing up for school was not an ordeal for me. It was though for my dad who used to help me with my “kira.” Once my grandma fixed my “kira’s” open end the wrong way so my friends in school undid the error. Mom gave up on it. In fact her kira used to be fixed by dad.

Going to school was an experience in itself. If all the neighbourhood kids- a noisy, restless bunch at that, could not huddle into the rickety, green jeep which dropt us every morning, we would be strolling through the secluded woods, breaking off whole branches of wild red berry shrubs, munching all the way to school. The process was repeated on the way back.

In school, lunches meant shared tiffins or oily “puris,” hot “aloo-dum,” thin white tea, cheap biscuits or raw “wai-wai” brought from the nearby canteen.

Then there were the senior girls or “big-sisters” making a fuss and babying the little ones.

And oh! Wasn’t I an avid dancer! Our school cultural programs had me prancing about excitedly. I remember playing the part of “Sleeping Beauty” in a nursery rhyme skit once! Ha, ha! I am one even now. I can’t claim to be a beauty (not blatantly) but sleepy, I always am! (As for dancing, lately I have developed two left feet so I can’t qualify for the title of a competent dancer).

It is strange but even at that age you do have an inkling of the inexplicable chemistry that exists between the opposite sexes, so you imagine that even you are part of it. I remember childishly “liking” a few little boys and snubbing a few others if they evinced an unsolicited interest in me. Ha, ha….those were the days…

As I looked at through the bus window during my most recent journey via Chumey, I could not help wishing I was living in that magical little valley. I stared at the tranquil forests, clear brooks with smooth round pebbles winking beneath the silvery little ripples and the schools. Yes, the schools….that will always remain an integral part of my childhood.

I could see some lanky adolescents taking a leisurely stroll on the lonely cold road, another group engaged in playing basketball and yet another group comprising mostly girls sunning themselves by the school gate. “Growing children,” I mused.

As the bus moved on, winding through the flat valley punctuated by gentle slopes, I smelt again Bumthang- the smell of my childhood: the smell of pine needles, saw-dust, burning fire-wood- a subtle fragrance.

Chumey undoubtedly is another wonderful thing about Bumthang. The goods which adorn the front of the handicraft shop are a visual treat for any passerby. Then come the farm houses- traditional two-storied structures with stretches of tilled land before them. Some of them are spread with fine earth while others have big clouts with the faintest trace of frost on the surface so that they look like big frozen chunks of ice cream. Prayer flags flutter spasmodically to sudden gusts of chilly wind. Little huts made of matted bamboo are scattered among the houses. Picture perfect. I drink in the beauty.

There are numerous pine trees along the road. Pine trees hold a special place in my heart- I remember them for their sharp sweet smell, their hard brown cones strewn across little traversed paths, and little brown pine nuts which we used to pick up gingerly and crack in between our teeth.

My heart soars as I catch a glimpse of Chamkhar stretched out below me- the large serene plain, the river running through it, the familiar structures… It is getting dark now but as I observe the Chamkhar chu , flowing swiftly past the road, deceptively shallow at some stretches and dangerously deep at others, as I look at the mini-islands with the shrubs laden with sour, yellow berries, feeling their tangy taste on my tongue, I again drift back to a childhood fantasy.

Maybe some readers will be surprised at this but as a child when I read “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,” I could not get rid of my burning desire to be in Tom’s shoes! Agreed he was a boy, a naughty little boy at that, but I guess at that age, gender matters little as long as you can have fun, so there I was- longing to run away from home and stay at one of the islands on Chamkhar chu much like Tom did. His living the life of a little Robinson Crusoe (only his isolation was self imposed), fishing, fending for himself, fooling around with friends was a dream adventure for me. I loved every bit of it.

Finally, we entered the town and the bus came to a halt at the bus stop. I was back- back from my childhood Bumthang to the present one. But as the sights and sounds again surrounded and seeped into me, I knew Bumthang was the same- it would always remain so for me because it grew up with me.

ALONE

2010-07-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

I walk alone.
The street lights cast a garish glare on my face.
I walk on.
Tears blur my eyes.
I hear the honking of numerous vehicles rushing by.
Nameless faces, blank stares, lifeless forms which move.
Night falls. Shadows. Dark silhouettes. Strange leers.
I am alone.
I am being sucked into a vortex.
Where am I?
Where is the life I knew?
Where is the warm sunlight and the twittering of birds?
Where is the joy, the anticipation with which I welcomed each day?
Where are the fresh, bright mornings?
The noisy albeit concerned neighbours?
The reviving meals and laughter shared amidst kith and kin?
The heartwarming prayers and wishes at every gathering?
Where is fulfilling leisure?
Where have I reached? Where am I?
I can’t even watch a sunset or muse over the moon.
I hardly find time to scribble a note or enjoy a poem.
I can’t even feel the breeze through my hair or hear the pitter patter of rain.
All I feel is hollowness and weariness.
All I feel are tear drops running a marathon on my face.
Is this what I asked for, God?
Is this what You willed for me?
Time seems breathless.
And memories hung in space.
I am just a mortal, God.
I can’t bear more than what I can.
Don’t test me unbearably. I can’t stand it.
See how weak I am, how frail….
I am mere dust; I need your strength and power.
I know if I live in you I live.
Otherwise, God, Oh how hard it is for me!
To survive.
When I am on the verge of tears, I have to smile.
When I am about to fall apart, I have to put on a brave front.
I can’t go on like this.
Help me, God.
Lest I lose my sanity.
Help me, I pray, help me.

THE PAIN OF LEARNING…

2010-07-02T11:03:00.002-07:00

Human beings are a peculiar lot….some think they know everything, some believe they are learning continuously. The people who belong to the latter group are the ones who are in most danger of living in a delusionary world….a world where you feel though you are learning you have already learnt more than what you need to know…that is the greatest ignorance in fact. They are even more egoistic than the former group. Why? Because the former think they know better than anybody else and try to bull-doze their way while the latter know they are better then this set of know-alls so their ego is even supersized.
I think I belonged to the latter category.
Pretending….pretending to be someone you are not, craving for people’s attention and approval until you are no longer true to yourself, deluding yourself that you are so much more special and different than others, parading yourself until you are actually making a fool of yourself without realizing it.
I used to be this shy, little book worm….living in my own little world. I grew up to be a studious student but extremely shy and self conscious.
With passage of time I started opening up and after I joined my first job as a journalist I made friends, met interesting people, started to travel, mingle more with society.
Then I started being more confident, outgoing and talkative. Exposure to the outside world and official trips outside the country. Independence and financial security. Appreciation and favourable criticism from various quarters. Then the changes started……
I don’t know how it happened….it started slowly, subtly…..I don’t know how I could change so much…I never realized it until recently….When I look back I see it all now….the attitude- all those “witty” wisecracks intended to impress, the over smart remarks and rejoinders in un-necessary situations, the strutting and posing, the “care-a-damn” stance, the slangs and cuss words ( although used covertly), ridiculing others, cracking mean jokes about people just to get a cheap kick, the sly glances and sarcastic smirks especially while observing others, bad mannered chuckling in company…………
I never knew how bad the situation had really become…..I thought I was being admired when all I was doing was making an ass of myself. Artificiality, superfluosness, showing off, acting, superiority complex….hell, what had I become?
When did I lose touch with myself? My inner self?
When did this descent into delusionary madness begin?
The ego, the condescension, the spiritual pride, the vanity?
I don’t know, even as I write this whether I am really free of the grip of these vices now, but I am glad that I have made this realization. It does not pay to pretend, it does not pay to be someone you are not.
If people like you for what you are it is good. It is great if people appreciate the real you, if they are impressed with YOU, the real YOU.
If they are not, it does no good to pretend. You can take constructive steps to improve on your shortcomings, you can develop yourself in the best possible ways but that is all you can strive to do. That will improve you and maybe you may even earn appreciation but that is it.
Donning another persona just to impress people is equivalent to being a hypocrite.
And at the end a hypocrite never ever wins.

WHERE IS THE LOVE?

2010-07-02T11:03:00.001-07:00

Idealism sounds like a bad idea in today’s practical world filled with practical people. And virtues like love, spirituality and loyalty are scoffed at; people who try to hang onto their principles and salvage the last remnants of sanity are ridiculed, considered freaks or simply considered as lagging behind in the process of human evolution.

In a world where heinous crimes are committed without batting an eyelid and where countries rise against each other, where the poor are exploited, the innocent made scape-goats and the already terrorized are hunted down, I would not be surprised to witness a conflict of interest or friction between political parties and other such divisions but what I witnessed at the Wagha Border in Amritsar, the border town between India and Pakistan during my recent visit there was something which not only thoroughly disappointed me but even drove me to the point of despair despite being aware of the fact that this is a practical world.

I was perturbed by the open hostility displayed by the Indians as they howled, shouted and jeered to show their disdain and contempt for the Pakistanis on the other side of the border as soon as they had finished their ostentatious show of gyrating to loud and supposedly patriotic music. Most of the dancers were young women and a few were really flaunting their stuff. It appeared more like a vulgar night show in a disco than lobbying for the good name of your country.

And what disgusted me more by this so called “program” (as the Indians there called it) was that, the authorities organizing this “program” was the government. There were the soldiers parading, strutting, and kicking into the air while the head or coordinator (whatever) of the whole thing who looked very much like a well educated, civilized man was encouraging and driving the already wild and angry mocking crowd to fever pitch agitation by gesticulating and shouting for more noise, roars and claps. Sick.

I could not really see how the Pakistanis were acting in the situation but it seems even they were holding a similar “program” of their own in an open show of ill-disguised ire.

After all the diplomacy and sweet dialogue of friendship shared by the two countries and advertised so aptly by the media you would expect them to show the same tact in reality which sadly was missing undoubtedly in this shameful scene.

If the authorities who can turn the flow of public opinion and thus change the tide of events themselves resort to such cheap gimmicks, I really can’t imagine to what extent the future generations especially the easily influenced sections of the society like the illiterate people and youth would go to.

I could not help wondering if the authorities brainwashing these people were at fault, whether the people themselves were completely free of blame because they had managed to fan and keep alive the fires of communal discord even after so many years, so many lost lives, lost homes and after so much blood-shed and tears.

And I ask myself whether we in Bhutan will also come to face such a situation one day- the signs are already there- we derogatorily call each other “Bhoteys” and “Bjaghas." If a Lhotshampha or Drukpa causes us some inconvenience, we promptly swear and take sides depending on which ethnicity we belong to. It is as if just because we have different ethnic or racial origins, we are superior or inferior to each other when first and fore most-we are just human beings. Simple human -beings. Vulnerable human beings. Mortal human beings. And above all human beings who need each other to survive happily.

And at the end it is only that which really matters.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF INTELLECTUAL SNOBS

2010-07-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

I will be candid: There exist few intellectuals but more than a few intellectual snobs.

Who are they? Books, you name it and they have read it (As for me, I did not even have the patience to go through Salman Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children.” I thought it was a “heavy book”, most of my high school days being spent reading Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel and Barbara Cartland).

Those who throw you a pitying glance as they ask “You haven’t read THAT book?” Makes you wither with shame and question yourself“ Am I still living in the Ice- Ages?” as the other supposed intellectuals in the group cluck sympathetically whilst rapidly enumerating various other titles or authors you haven’t had the fortune or misfortune to hear of. Sounds like the names of extra-terrestrials to me.

In fact this has become a fashion statement for those who want to flaunt their brains (and a serious lack of humility). That does not mean there aren’t a few who read for the pure pleasure of it or to add to their storehouse of knowledge or to put it simply “for the joy of learning” but to boast that you have actually completed reading the whole set of classics including the modern ones before you passed 8th grade or the ones touted as best-sellers just “hot off the shelf”….there you go…intellectual snobbery at its best.

And you know what the scary part of this world is? The fact that in due time you get influenced…influenced by all this….parading your qualifications, the countless number of books you claim to have read, hungering for approval as you give your rehearsed comments, trying to gain a foothold in the coveted “class” of “extraordinary” brains, seeking to impress people especially the less educated and being condescending towards them……the ride of the ego can turn dangerous if unchecked by the desire to be an authentic individual, more so an authentic intellectual.

Round table discussions may sound impressive, so do facts and figures, so does rattling off the names of exotic literary works but our motives come into question. A very thin line separates intellectual fulfillment from intellectual snobbery.

THE LOVE SONG

2010-07-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Hunger for love and acceptance is a primeval craving in human beings, an inborn instinct, a powerful driving force.

How else do you explain the tears of a growing child who has been snubbed by his play-mates? Or the depressive withdrawals of a teenager who is taunted by her peers as being “weird” or different from them? Or the broken heartedness of a budding Romeo when his muse fails to respond to his declarations of everlasting love?

Or who can fathom the pain and self-questioning despair of a married woman jilted by her husband? Or the grief and silent suffering of an old couple whose children have abandoned them in pursuit of their own overwhelming interests?

Isn’t it because every person wants to love and be loved? Every person needs a kind word, a gesture of sympathy or some kind of solidarity once in a while, if not every time.

A little bit of love and approval shown by something as mundane as a simple compliment or a smile can do wonders.

Take a good look around you. Do you see that scowling stranger whom you meet every day at the park? Well, he may have that look on his face because his wife nags him at home and his boss gives him hell at work. Why don’t you go and make small talk? After all you see each other everyday, right? You falter? Okay, just go hang around him a bit, and when he gives you that grim look of his, flash him a smile…Chances are he may ignore you but the better and most probable thing he may do is smile back at you. There! He will feel better and you even better for making someone else’s mood better! Worth it, right?

Okay, let us go to work ourselves. The alarm did not ring, you are late for work and the boss is not exactly smiling at you as you enter through the office door. Worse, he grills you on work (not) done. You fume, you fret. You badly wanted to impress him since you joined the company. Since you can’t stick out your tongue at your boss and ask him to go to hell (not to his face, at least I would not do that) you explode at your colleague whom you had always found mildly irritating but used to humor anyway.

See the point? People are always hungering for approval, acceptance and love either in family, at work, in schools, anywhere and when they don’t get it, they react in different ways.

Some withdraw into their shells, some turn into raging bulls ready to gore down anyone in their way, some become show-offs because they feel inadequate, some go into manic depression, and some may resort to self-destructive habits or even go to the extent of manhandling others.

All these are varied reactions. But why? Most of the time it is because THEY ARE HURTING. And hurting bad. When you find yourself unaccepted by your own and especially by someone you love, whose affection or opinion you value, it hurts. Bad.

So what do we do, you ask? We can’t become saints and love and compliment every Tom, Dick and Harry we meet, right? No, of course not!! That is impossible, impractical. But we can start in small ways, right? At least within our sphere, our circle? That is not too much to ask for especially when we and the people we care for will be the greatest beneficiaries.

First thing, love God. I am not an atheist neither am I an agnostic. I am a Christian and I think that is the greatest blessing in my life. Love God, yes. And those of you who are either rolling your eyes or yawning, hold on.

I will not tell you to believe what I am saying…you can give me the benefit of doubt, I don’t mind. Not at all. But let me at least tell you that I love God because God loved me first and the fact that He is always there for me, not as some kind of unfeeling energy unleashed from somewhere in space, not some autocratic power ready to swallow me up, BUT a feeling, a loving, a compassionate yet a holy and intelligent supreme being, some one whom I can talk to, confide in, pray to….and BEST who is always there for me…well, that is one wonder I can never get used to, fellas.

Anyways, to get back to the point, when you are hurting, you question yourself, you question others, you question the whole world…..but loving God helps you love yourself and others.

Strange? Not at all.

When I love God, I know God loves me too. So being accepted by SOMEONE as perfect as God makes me love myself. I feel cherished, cared for, protected.

Now, the other part.

When you are not accepted, you lose self –respect, confidence, self-esteem. You may start indulging in self-pity (which is a costly indulgence if I may say, speaking from experience). Then when you don’t love yourself (not to the point of narcissism or egoism, there is a difference), you find it very tough to love others.

You may develop an aversion for company or you will go to any lengths to win approval or attention.

“I don’t think he loves me for what I am, it is better to avoid him”
Or
“I don’t think he loves me for what I am. Maybe I should act like this, do this, be this….”

Got my point? Ultimately you turn reclusive or you go to the other extreme and become clingy and desperate, which is not love, it is DEPENDENCE. Or you try to act different, try to be someone you are not or you just try to stand out in a crowd.

Then hurting others and yourself stems from the same malaise-you are in pain.

“They don’t care for me so why should I?”
OR
“I am a hateful person. Nobody cares for me.”

What is the best way to deal with such pain? Raw wounds, a dull ache or fading scars which are still sensitive to the touch?

I think the prescription is simple. LOVE.

You love others when you love yourself first. And to do both you have to love GOD. Simple.

So the next time you feel like pouncing on someone or launching a tirade, stop. Is he doing this to me intentionally? Or is it because he does not understand my point of view? Is it because I have done something wrong which I am unable to accept? Or is it because he is hurting?

And the next time you hate yourself, think. I have done something very wrong but I am human, fallible and when God has assured me of forgiveness, I think I should forgive myself too. I will try not to repeat this mistake. Or I will try to make amends.

Even as I write this, my friends, I tell you I myself can’t practice everything I have written all the time. When I don’t get approval or love from those I expect, I fall into various pitfalls myself but then I do think and TRY.

And trying always leads to growth. Learning. It is dynamism.

It doesn’t hurt to try.

Millions around the world are starving for physical nourishment similarly a lot of us are starving for love, a little bit of love and acceptance.

Are you one of them? Or is someone near you? Reach out. You can make a difference.

P.S. While hungering for love and approval is natural as I said earlier, it is good to learn some discretion. We can’t please every body. That is a well known fact. And while not being approved by some one not very dear to us may not cause much pain, there will be situations where how much ever we may try to be loved by a loved one he/she may not respond or understand. In such a case, you just have to move on….Human beings are just that- human beings…they are not the easiest creatures to deal with. But look UP- find comfort in God’s perfect unchanging love. (Because ultimately only HE is the greatest Lover).

KEEP THE FAITH :)

SOMETIMES...

2010-07-02T10:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it hurts more to be loved than to love
Sometimes a loved one can be your greatest foe
Sometimes you just can’t be black or white,
Sometimes life can offer you two options- both of which you may not like but must choose from
Sometimes you have to cry not for the good things missing in your life but the life missing in good things you have
Sometimes you want to die because you hate life but there are those who are willing to live so that others can love life
Sometimes reality can be harsh but illusion much harsher
Sometimes it is good to help others grow but it is better if you let them grow
Sometimes sympathy can be good but empathy better
Sometimes tears and smiles are more eloquent than words
Sometimes glamour is beautiful but simplicity lovely
Sometimes beauty can win, charm always does
Sometimes fighting back is good but forbearance deadlier
Sometimes love means release
Sometimes happiness is just one step away
Sometimes in a moment you learn what in a lifetime you don’t
Sometimes no matter what the world says it is good to listen to yourself
Sometimes stripping away your masks can be a good way to get healed
Sometimes crying means you are strong
Sometimes saying “no” doesn’t mean that you don’t care
Sometimes excessive concern kills
Sometimes letting go of someone means growth
Sometimes being an intellectual doesn’t make you wise
Sometimes being emotional doesn’t mean you are a fool
Sometimes being sad makes you human
Sometimes happiness is not the end, it’s the process
Sometimes a pricking conscience can be your wisest critic
Sometimes anger is required
Sometimes it is better to have an ice-cream than an apple!

SAY IT OUT LOUD!

2010-07-02T10:56:00.002-07:00

Bitching is an art.

An art which comes most naturally to the fairer and notably louder sex, an art which can be perfected and which is most easily perfected because it is inborn and can be cultivated with utmost, in fact excessive pleasure bordering on addictive indulgence.

There are several kinds of bitching. One is the in-your-face rudeness, impudence if you may call it, or even audacity. A crude catty form of criticism. Scathing outpourings. “Did you hear the latest? I heard that she was two-timing two boyfriends with a third one!! How cheap can she get?” “I heard she sleeps with her boss and his wife is her best friend!”

And especially when there is a group of females, expect a volcanic eruption of sizzling tid-bits. Often the same females comprising a group and bitching with so much ado about others will be bitching against each other in different company.

Then there is another sort of bitching- bitching to extract information to bitch more about. “Did you know she is contemplating divorce with her second husband also? Poor thing!! I wonder how much alimony she is going to get, she deserves it and her husband is so sinfully rich!”

Then yet another sort- the honey coated words with the wasp’s sting. She pretends to sympathize or condole or express her unsolicited solidarity when she means just the opposite. “I heard she was a very studious girl in school. Poor thing! Imagine, she failed thrice in her 1st year of college! How could she? I have not failed even once but of course, I am not diligent like her!!” Ouch!!!

Bitching is an integral, indispensable part of the female psyche unless she is truly altruistic. God!! The games females play and the gift (curse?) of the gab they possess!! Bitching is an institution in itself and deserves an annual function with different-category awards. I really won’t be surprised if this wonderfully versatile art evolves into other potentially distinguished forms in the near future.

(And I also won’t be surprised if males in female company start stacking up on cotton wads to plug into their ears though I sure am not being fair on men if I say male bitching does not exist).

JOURNEYING INTO THE HEART OF THE MATTER

2010-07-02T10:56:00.001-07:00

There are journeys and there are more journeys but this time I was gearing up for a memorable trip which I had not really foreseen as one that would bring a wry smile to my face and produce moments of amused introspection.
Called to the headquarters for the media awards and the office anniversary picnic, I was at the capital for a fortnight, dividing time between work and fun. I filed in some stories for our weekly, shared jokes with friends while biting into pizza at The Seasons, went on shopping sprees spending a bomb on girly stuff, wept copious tears alone at the clock tower due to reasons best left unsaid…two weeks passed.
Finally, came the day of return- two days’ travel from Thimphu to Trashigang. I knew what they say of ordinary buses….they are famous for causing discomfiture and muscle cramps. Coaster-buses are heaven compared to the afore-mentioned big, menacing monsters. But I really didn’t care. I just wanted to get back home in time.
So I boarded the ominous structure on wheels and waved a last goodbye to my uncle who dropped me till the bus stand. As the bus roared to a start, I looked around at the other passengers. This was difficult because the space was so cramped I could hardly breathe.
The seat next to me was occupied by a man who looked friendly enough but the jacket he wore was so big it seemed to be smothering him at the neck. Luckily or unluckily, he decided to shift to an empty space next to two other men and I was left alone…at least for sometime.
As the bus heaved to a halt at the first stop, I was accosted by a woman who decided to sit beside me. She was a simple villager judging by her unkempt appearance, faded shoes and the small dirty ruck-sack she was carrying.
I have nothing against villagers but my senses cried out to be rescued at the foul stench emanating from the woman. And she decided to give me company. She kept throwing me irrelevant questions which I tried to answer in Sharchopkha as best as possible.
To get some respite and a breath of fresh air, I opened the window but the next moment the guy behind me pulled it close. “It’s raining. Close the window,” he uttered, no, in fact, ordered. Wanting to avoid unnecessary trouble, I did just that and the woman did not exactly smell of roses.
Some chemistry was brewing between the two young pretty girls in front of me and two young lads at the back. I noticed it every time the bus halted. The guys seemed to be seriously smitten by the girls going by the amount of ogling they did. I chuckled to myself inwardly… “Kids!” I thought.
The journey ended after twelve excruciating hours, at Bumthang.
The next morning I boarded the bus at six exactly. The same people, the same faces…and my companion- the friendly village woman was also present, flashing me a toothy smile.
As the journey progressed, a soldier to my right who was sitting with two other passengers started a monologue. I guess he had encountered endless adventures because he just could not stop talking about his travels, experiences and blah..blah…
Many times I dozed off; lulled to sleep by the heat and exhaustion and when awake I kept myself occupied by newspapers and a book I had newly bought.
As we neared our destination, my companion started thanking me profusely for the few eatables I had given her. She seemed to be genuinely grateful. All of a sudden, she glanced at my hands and showing hers- rough and worn out, said, “Your hands are so smooth unlike mine but can’t help it, I have to work!”
I just kept quiet because I didn’t know what to say. In fact, at that moment, I was feeling ashamed for treating her in a condescending manner. Yes, though she was poor, illiterate and far from tidy, she was also a human-being with needs, desires and wants similar to mine. How could I have thought myself superior to her?
The last journey of my two days’ travel ended at 7:30 in the evening when we reached Trashigang. It had been a tiresome journey but I now knew what it meant to travel, not in an air-conditioned Prado or even a Maruti car, but in a bus- the people’s bus to be more precise. And I had learnt something.
To really understand life, sometimes it just is not enough to sympathize intellectually. Every privileged person can do that from his ivory tower. You have to come out of your comfort zone and learn from people whom however ordinary or inferior they seem can teach you what no posh school or college can. This was a lesson of a life-time.
P.S. Of course, you must have a sense of humor.

BEAUTIFUL HANDS AND BEAUTIFUL HEARTS

2010-07-02T10:54:00.000-07:00

Last year on a bus journey I met a woman- an unkempt, illiterate villager. And I remember her for what she told me as we neared our destination: “Your hands are so beautiful. As for mine, I have to work at home.”
Those wistful words lingered in my mind. Maybe what she will never understand is that her hands-rough, callused and dirty as they were are in fact the MOST beautiful. I can’t compare my own pair to hers neither can I draw a parallel to it in the softest, fairest, most expensively manicured hands.
I look at my hands- they are diminutive, fair and smooth enough, no done up nails but clipped and clean. Occasionally, I slather on moisturizer just to maintain their decent appearance.
I have seen other girls’ hands far better looking than mine- perfect nails, perfect skin….but somehow the village woman’s hands keep flashing before my eyes.
Why do they seem to surpass the insurmountable beauty of lovely, well kept hands?
I see a connection- my bus companion’s hands were connected to her heart, in more ways than one.
And her heart was as beautiful as her hands. The combination was lethal.
I never asked her but I know what she does back at home.
Work- House chores. Farm work.
From the crack of dawn till night falls, she is engaged not in frivolous pursuits but in back-breaking labour.
The water, the wind, the earth, the rocks, the wood, the tools- everything she handles tear at the skin of her hands, dehydrates them, roughens them. Her nails fill with dirt; they chip, wear out or simply thicken with age….but her heart can’t protest against the abuse her hands undergo.
She has to survive. Her family, kith and kin have to survive.
She has to slog. She has no choice. But I daresay she never complains.
She has accepted her obscure fate, her life as it is. She knows she has to work and she does. Willingly, if not cheerfully.
She does not complain about bad hair-dos, pimples and pigmentation.
Her life is too important for such petty matters.
I look at my own hands again- are they really as beautiful as she said?
Have I ever done a good deed with my hands?
A comforting squeeze on the shoulder of a despairing friend?
A gentle, loving caress on a dear one’s face?
A light touch accompanying a wink to convey a funny message?
A slight brush on the face of a weeping child to wipe away her tears?
A gift handed without hope of returns or without a feeling of condescension?
I think.
I do remember a few such moments.
When I have dared to stretch out my hands and enhance their beauty.
But I also remember all those lost opportunities and moments when I could have listened to my heart and made my hands follow their commands.
The village woman paid me a wonderful compliment without realizing how much weight her simple but wise words carried.
Her compliment was one of the most genuine and precious compliments any one has ever given me.
I smile and tell myself I will try to make my hands live up to her words.

JUST IN PASSING

2010-07-02T10:53:00.000-07:00

I once sat on the top of the world. I watched what was going on below me. I could see and hear everything but I was deaf to the little voice inside me that was whispering, trying to gain my attention. It spoke softly but its very gentleness struck me with force.
I don’t know if this is wrong, or the situation is wrong. All I know is there is a rising surge of joy in me. A tenderness fills my heart, I have grown mellower. My words are calm yet firm. My steps are slow but steady. I walk the path everyone has to one day, but I can grasp the wonder of what is happening.
I am seeing beauty with new eyes, my heart sings like a lark yet tears of joy and wistfulness drop from my eyes. I hear a symphony…it is neither Bach nor Beethoven…it is a melody more lucid and yet the more touching for its simplicity.
I observe the hustle and bustle, people coming and going. I hear the words they speak as if I were a separate entity. I float above the world yet I am so much a part of it. The skies, the oceans, the vast meadows and the great mountains along with all the wonderful living creatures awaken in me feelings I had grown to suppress.
My soul feels like crystal-purified of all stains…clear, sparkling and I face the world with a new vision. I fear this phase is transitory but I also know that if you fear, you won’t know and if you don’t know you will never learn.
Learned I have, yes…Once I was alone, isolated…I feigned everything was alright, I pretended I was happy…but then I was deceiving not only others but myself. I questioned God. I questioned myself but little did I know the answer was in me…so simple I had failed to see it. Now, I know. And my heart is hopeful, freed of the tediousness and tenacity daily living brings.
The growth of a human soul is beautiful…pain is a part of it but even pain imparts a maturity, a wisdom that is timeless. A fire suffuses through my being- new courage, new zest, renewed hopes…spreads its hold over my being.
I learn to take one day at a time, live at the moment. I feel in tune with the cosmic universe, connected with the web which links everything and everyone….yet I am detached and can observe the workings of my heart, my soul’s pursuits.
I find my place in the Master-Plan.

CHANGE

2010-07-02T10:51:00.000-07:00

Change- a single, immobile word that conveys momentum, motion, rush against time or flowing with the tide.
Change- dynamism and growth or regression and devolution.
Change- Either you fight against it and suffer stagnation or you dare to let it happen and risk the implications.
The universe is in a state of constant motion, the galaxies dance to the rhythm of time and space, the moon waxes during particular phases, the wind and water carves, sculpts and polishes the landscape into visual wonders, the tiny seed germinates prompted by the life force into a strong, green tree and at the centre, the focus of everything lies MAN- the being.
The man changes, too.
Within the man is a force, a power to change and bring about changes.
To suppress it, is to let the well spring of life die. Or is it? The word ‘death’ is subjective.
Change constitutes life. But human life is a mockery of evolution.
I have changed. And my eyes take in the changes change brings with a growing wonder, curiosity and apprehension.
Every new day and situation is an eye-opener, an experience. Vulnerability and youth giving way to toughness and tenacity, even bordering on aggressive obstinacy. Pure innocence replaced by an awareness of human failures and foibles. Childish contentment turning to resignation and cynicism. Trust and goodness tainted by skepticism and doubts. Love relegated to lust.
Am I a pessimist? I don’t know. Whatever is pure, good, worthy of value seem to have deteriorated into an object of wile, hypocrisy and debasement.
Ideals? Trash! Principles? Hah! Morality? Old fashioned!
I don’t want to cry.
I am forced to.
I am changing. My world is changing.
What dark powers lurk within and about me? What unseen shadows?
Inner battles, tempestuous! Stormy waters beneath the calm surface!
I grieve. Is this what I was destined for? Is this what I prayed for?
Change that stunts me is death. I can’t grow, am not growing.
The life force within me is drying up. Every day I suffer. A slow death.
Excruciating pain. I choke. I suffocate. I gasp for breath.
Had I known I would die when I strove to live, I would not change.
But the process carries me, swiftly in its currents, the eddies swirl around me. I am thrown into the back lash of white waters, helpless. The rapids engulf me, my soul is consumed.
Is there a glimmer of hope? The light is wane but it flickers in the distance.
I have to get there. I have to feel the warmth spread through my numb, entreating fingers into my frozen being. My heart is cold within me, trembling and fearful but there must be a sign of life somewhere- the sole goal of my pursuit.
When I reach there some day, when I can feel change within me without it tearing me apart, or causing me to question the authenticity of my identity and existence, I will listen to the cosmic language that pervades everything and everyone, smile and cease shedding tears that mourn life and death evoked by the universal music of change.

BEAUTY, DON'T LET IT DIE

2010-07-02T10:49:00.000-07:00

Beauty is a force to reckon with.

A powerful, and to many an irresistible force, maybe even a miracle- the way it works. It transforms brutes into men, refines those who already have the capacity to feel and of course it turns the lover of art and women into a hopeless romantic.

Recently while travelling via Wangdue, I saw a group of tourists peering through binoculars at the landscape below the road. What were they gazing at so intently? I turned my own eyes to their direction. What did I see? Vast stretches of golden fields. On the slopes of varying shades of green, the millet was ripe for harvest- bright yellow, a rich burst of mellow sunshine in sharp contrast to the green surrounding it. Nothing spectacular for the Bhutanese people but for these people from a foreign land it was an amazing sight. Magical.

Beauty of form- one of the tangible manifestations of a wondrous phenomenon can be found abundantly in common-place things. We only need to see and feel it. Forgive me for sounding hedonistic but I feel that the enjoyment of beauty is one of life’s greatest pleasures, more so because it comes free. You only need to develop an aesthetic awareness and grasp each opportunity to enjoy it- as it comes.

But this, I feel, we have forgotten to do. We are so caught up with our lives and daily pursuits that we have become oblivious to the beauty we can find around us, vainly searching to fill a void which only a keen perception of it can bring.

Fortunately we are born in a country where Nature’s beauty abounds. Just a stroll by the road, a journey on a bus, and you will come across sights which will overwhelm you and elevate your soul to spiritual heights which hitherto you never could reach because you were blind and deaf to beauty- surrounding you, smiling at you, beckoning you into its warm generous embrace.

Join me on a mid- October ride now, from Gezamchu, just before approaching the mountainous pass of Thrumsingla to the rolling slopes of Lingmethang - let us keep our eyes open and together explore the colourful canvas set before us to experience the joys its beauty offers.

The road winds up over dangerous looking ravines. The car I am travelling in is not exactly gliding but the ride is smooth enough and I roll down the window to breathe in the crisp chilly mountain air, letting the surroundings seep into my senses, transporting me to the land where the Muses sang and of which poets dreamt.

Do you see it? Beauty, where I do? Come, look through my eyes.

I see beauty in the warm sunlight lighting up little brown cones hanging from cypress branches with their golden and green needles.

I see beauty in the dry brown fern leaves curled up by the roadside.

I see beauty in the stately fir trees with sea-green feathery lichen swaying from their branches.

I see beauty in the bare pointed tree trunks rising up from the cliffs into the sky, sombre and still as if in prayer.

I see beauty in the weather- beaten culverts and the yellow capped milestones, lonely and desolate.

I see beauty in the roughly cut rocks and dry dust enveloping them, the shiny particles comprising them catching the sunlight and glistening like minute mirrors.

I see beauty in a solitary prayer flag with its worn out prayer cloth fluttering at the slightest hint of breeze.

I see beauty in a little crystal stream of water trickling down a flat plank of wood- an improvised water source for villagers and weary travelers to take a sip from.

I see beauty in a lone red sign board with yellow letters nailed to a tree, obscure, forgotten except when glanced at occasionally by a passerby.

I see beauty in the sudden glimpse of the red-tipped feathers of a wild fowl disappearing beneath a canopy of bushes.

I see beauty in the numerous brick-red, dark-blue and bright yellow “tormas” secretly peeping out from rock crevices, an offering to the deities of yore.

I see beauty in the dull moss covered rocks, a cluster of lively blue flowers- enough to revive fallen spirits, and plants with fleshy white stalks forming a snowy carpet by the slopes.

I see beauty in sturdy trees lined up on the mountain tops like a battalion of soldiers gearing up for the call of conquest.

The ride has come to an end. You see, now? Beauty is a spiritual retreat. You come out of it feeling revitalized, rejuvenated and it tunes you to the cosmic language- the song of Creation. Ecstatic abandon.

Beauty is a soul-to-soul connection between you and your Creator. You are closest to Him when you are to Beauty. Join me in celebrating this bond. Don’t let Beauty die.

WHO AM I?

2010-07-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

Who am I?
To the world I am a 26-year old female, reporter for a private paper and an independent career woman.
To my family and close ones, I am a dutiful (hopefully) daughter, an easy going friend and companion.
To me?
I can't say....I am still on a journey of self discovery. But from whatever I have deduced from quiet moments of introspection, I know I am someone who is more in her world than outside.
I love being alone.
I love reading while listening to soft music.
I love to feel the breeze on my face on a solitary evening walk.
I love to wake up, clean up my place, take a refreshing shower and settle down in my room with a steaming cup of tea.
I love watching a sunset and penning down a line.
I like to believe I am a strong believer of God and the Divine.
I like to go through my diary notes and smile.
I cry easily but I laugh as easily.
I believe in ideals but I feel scared sometimes that I won't be strong enough to hold on.
I enjoy company but I don't need it.
I have few close friends.
I admire my dad.
I constantly strive to be a better human being.
Sometimes I can be harsh on myself.

Every new day I anticipate with a mixed feeling of hope and dread. But I always place myself in God's hands because I believe in divine providence. A few say I am stupid. Others say I am immature. I don't know. I am happy when I do the things I love most. I am happy when I am what I am. And I am most happy when I think I have done my best.