BEING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DESK

I started out as a reporter around three and a half years ago.
Well, I can’t say I decided it. Fate did (and I am glad it did).
Starting out as a reporter – meek, vulnerable, just out of college and most strikingly, an introvert inclined to be depressed all the time leaned the scales (and the tides) against me.
I had few friends and absolutely no contacts. My sole world was my soul and my best friend was my supportive dad.
And to tell you a secret – I hardly read newspapers then except the entertainment section.
With all these handicaps, I started out but got selected in Bhutan Times, the country’s first private newspaper, solely on the strength on my language or so to say writing skills.
I remember I had to write on media and democracy. I admit now that there wasn’t much substance in my essay, just aesthetic charm.
But I slogged for the one month I interned.
I admit I didn’t do many screamers; howlers were more like it.
But I think the management knew I was trying and trying hard.
At the end of the month, my first front page story was published, interestingly on “night hunting”.
Six months I was at the capital and everybody was nice to me and appreciative of the “suicidal interludes” I wrote for the paper.
Now, I wonder why I was so sad. There was no reason to be.
Then, like a bolt from the blue came the news – I was to be posted as the eastern correspondent for the paper.
Fear, apprehension, nervousness….the question – “Will I manage it?” dogged me throughout the time I journeyed from Thimphu to Trashigang.
I need not have worried because my family was there.
But my dad got another posting after a few months.
It was a blessing in disguise.
I became so independent and strong I could not have imagined it was the same me.
I stayed a year in the east as a correspondent.
Soon, there was a change in management and problems arose. My dear colleagues walked out and I was terminated, too because I became sick and irrational.
I am schizophrenic but I have no qualms about admitting it. Sometimes, you see the light only when there is darkness and this malady has taught me so much about life, myself and God.
At the end of another month, my health stabilized and I joined Bhutan Today.
Here started my first stint as an editor. I was reporting as well as learning to edit.
After some months, I was transferred to Gelephu as a bureau correspondent again.
Life was lonely but I was again independent.
After the end of a busy day, I would sit on the balcony, watching the rainfall, or listening to cicadas and sip a cup of aromatic tea.
However, I was not to stay in Gelephu for long.
When I visited the capital after a period of time, I met with an accident (a cab hit me) and I was bed-ridden for a month.
Another blessing in disguise.
My well-meaning boss delegated me solely to the editorial desk and soon I turned copy editor.
After I was on my feet again, I was reposted to Thimphu and I started editing for two newspapers.
The training I went through was grilling, thrilling and wonderful.
Now, I am news editor for The Bhutanese and it seems like I have come a long way.
How does it feel like to be (known as) an editor?
Well, to be frank, the name sounds good and it is uplifting to the morale but I know I have a long, long way to go.
Dealing with reporters is tricky – you have to know when you should get close and when you need to withdraw.
Personal and professional prejudices should be kept at arm’s length though sometimes no matter how much you try, they tend to overlap.
And as for my knowledge and expertise (or the lack of it), I feel like a frog in a pond sometimes.
I am learning day by day, minute by minute.
Sometimes, I feel like the reporters can teach me a lesson or two when it comes to economics and finance!
I still need to hone my analytical and expressive skills.
I know I have got a tremendous bit to learn.
So the onus of being “an editor” does not come easy; tagged with it comes responsibility to yourself, the reporters, the newsroom as a whole and most importantly the society.
What you write can build or destroy.
What you write can kill or heal.
I am lucky I am known as an upcoming paper’s editor but I know I have yet to prove that I really am one.

LEARNING POYNTER(S)

Well, it was a wonderful week in St.Petersburg , Florida in the USA, (Feb 12 to Feb 18) - the city of beaches and sunshine though the weather was not exactly as warm as we had expected and it rained on our last day at the state.
The Media Project did a wonderful job of bringing together 18 Christian journalists from across the world in the premier Poynter Institute of Journalism to train them on management and leadership issues.
I met a wide variety of people who had personalities as diverse as the colors of the rainbow.
I made good friends like the ever effervescent Irene Akoto from Ghana, Anna-Liza Kozma from Canada who was always brimming over with enthusiasm and energy, and Caroline Comport who was a top manager and adept at handling people and deadlines. Emeka Izeze from Nigeria and Jennifer Arul from Chennai had the advantage of experience and in-depth knowledge, and of course how can I forget the quiet and humble Aramide Oikelome also from Nigeria? I told her while departing, “Quiet waters run deep.” The same applied to Promise Hsu Hong from China and Victor Lugala from Sudan who with their silent presence made a substantial contribution to the workshop.
Baby Lyn Resulta from the Philippines and Dorothy Teoh from Malaysia with their expertise kept the conference room alive with discussions. So did Lekan Otufodunrin (Nigeria), David Sseppuuya(Uganda), and KL Chan(Malaysia) – our techno-expert.
Then there was Kristanto Hartadi from Indonesia and Mauricio Avila from Chile who had two things in common: salt-pepper hair and a silent sense of humor and maturity.
Dismas Lyassa from Tanzania acted very much the Prime Minister he was ordained to be! (Sorry, Dismas, for the joke!)
And of course, there was Rexford Johnson from Sierra Leone doing all the monkey business (he likes apples) and mischief while I was teased for being soft-spoken and timid. “The Princess of Bhutan” was an epitaph that stuck to me throughout the workshop. I just smiled and said I was “common royalty”.
I also evoked a lot of surprise, and horror from some quarters for saying we did not have “dessert” in Bhutan.
I once also evoked uproarious laughter from Romania’s Cristi Tepes, arguably the nicest, funniest and largest guy in the group, when I patted his very apparent belly and said “Gross National Happiness”.
Then the leaders: Jill Geisler – nothing beats the lady! She knows her stuff; and Arne H Fjeldstad – He is TRULY “the bishop” (I found my spiritual mentor in him and I consider myself blessed. TRULY blessed).
GOD BLESS THE WHOLE GROUP!

I BLEED

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

GROWING THROUGH PAIN

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

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.....

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

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.