Bhutan Literature

During one of my tours to Samtse, I wanted to try some Indian food on the other side of the gate. Walking into one of the hotels, I asked the man in the counter if I can get some rice and mutton. He looked at me and said, “If you eat more than three plates of rice, there isn’t enough.” I was amused and at the same time I was left wondering what had prompted him to ask me that particular question. So I asked him why he had asked me that question and if I looked really voracious. He said that many Bhutanese eat many servings of rice. He said that some of the Bhutanese, especially those “Resettled ones” eat at least four servings and then bargain for price like bargaining for clothes. Well, I guess that’s what Bhutanese are good at.

One of the greatest Canadian parliamentarians, Edmund Burke, referred to press as the Fourth Estate, more important than three other estates in the parliament. I don’t know what the other three estates are. Maybe he was referring to legislation, judiciary and bureaucracy. Maybe I am wrong, so don’t take it seriously. Since I am just a casual writer, a reporter myself at one point of time, I thought I would share my own opinion about the newspapers’ role. I think it is especially relevant at a time when Bhutan Times has made headlines due to retirement of the reporters and an editor en masse.

So, in the light of Voltaire, who said to Helvetius, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it," the readers would have to tolerate me. Compared to many newspapers around the world, Bhutanese newspapers, except for Kuensel are still “ baby in the wood.” They do have their own share of faults but their virtues are far greater than their faults. They reflect our society in many ways. They mirror us all the good, bad and ugly features that a society carries.

And like any other enterprise, it has its own element of business. It survives on advertisments, publications and creativity. It is sold under very competitive conditions these days and is required to have careful business management. If a newspaper is not produced for business, they are not newspaper but some kind of organ of whoever is sponsoring it. It has to be independent and to be independent it should have financial soundness.

But I also believe that most Bhutanese reporters and editors are able, responsible, and ambitiously capable of doing a good job despite many limitations. I am sure most believe in the fact that their work is important to their readers and to Bhutan. They can only justify their freedom of expression by reporting accurately and interestingly and also by interpreting intelligently the happenings of our time, which many of us take for granted.

Given the fact that we have a representative Government today in the form of democracy, the newspaper has a bigger responsibility of being a nation’s conscience. Therefore, survival of a newspaper becomes a a necessity. The perfect newspaper speaks for the lowly, oppressed and forgotten people. While discharging its responsibility, it would definitely trouble public conscience. In doing that, it is performing a worthy service to people. Bhutanese, like any other people around the world are hungry for news. We browse through the net to find if there is anything new.

A courageous publisher, being supported by an inspired, intelligent, and dynamic editorial staff would find his greatest fulfilment as a newspaperman. It is an achievement in itself if the newspapers are desired by the public for its authentic and well-written reports about national matters. Nattional matters need not necessarily be pleasing always.

All reporters are like any other human beings. He works, lives on his salary , gets married and look for good family life. He takes interests in matters that concerned everyone of us and often dwells in perplexities of life. But the main glamour belongs to the “brand name” created by the institution. It has the ability to change the lives of many people. So, to create such a revolution, it needs a leadership sensitive enough to understand the business of newspaper.

Freedom is a costly affair and if one cannot convey the message one wants to convey for whatever reasons, management or biasness, fear or personal interest, then the essence of newspaper becomes questionable.

Today, we are plagued by many problems. All the past generations had problems too but we are looking for new knowledge to tackle the problems we are facing now and only the newspaper can do it. Therefore, the newspaper has a double duty. It must comport itself so that it is read, listened or seen by mature people because of its reliability, and by young people because of its forward look. If the media do not have any of these elements, we might as well stop believing that we live in new Bhutan.

One of the greatest Canadian parliamentarians, Edmund Burke, referred to press as the Fourth Estate, more important than three other estates in the parliament. I don’t know what the other three estates are. Maybe he was referring to legislation, judiciary and bureaucracy. Maybe I am wrong, so don’t take it seriously. Since I am just a casual writer, a reporter myself at one point of time, I thought I would share my own opinion about the newspapers’ role. I think it is especially relevant at a time when Bhutan Times has made headlines due to retirement of the reporters and an editor en masse.

So, in the light of Voltaire, who said to Helvetius, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it," the readers would have to tolerate me. Compared to many newspapers around the world, Bhutanese newspapers, except for Kuensel are still “ baby in the wood.” They do have their own share of faults but their virtues are far greater than their faults. They reflect our society in many ways. They mirror us all the good, bad and ugly features that a society carries.

And like any other enterprise, it has its own element of business. It survives on advertisments, publications and creativity. It is sold under very competitive conditions these days and is required to have careful business management. If a newspaper is not produced for business, they are not newspaper but some kind of organ of whoever is sponsoring it. It has to be independent and to be independent it should have financial soundness.

But I also believe that most Bhutanese reporters and editors are able, responsible, and ambitiously capable of doing a good job despite many limitations. I am sure most believe in the fact that their work is important to their readers and to Bhutan. They can only justify their freedom of expression by reporting accurately and interestingly and also by interpreting intelligently the happenings of our time, which many of us take for granted.

Given the fact that we have a representative Government today in the form of democracy, the newspaper has a bigger responsibility of being a nation’s conscience. Therefore, survival of a newspaper becomes a a necessity. The perfect newspaper speaks for the lowly, oppressed and forgotten people. While discharging its responsibility, it would definitely trouble public conscience. In doing that, it is performing a worthy service to people. Bhutanese, like any other people around the world are hungry for news. We browse through the net to find if there is anything new.

A courageous publisher, being supported by an inspired, intelligent, and dynamic editorial staff would find his greatest fulfilment as a newspaperman. It is an achievement in itself if the newspapers are desired by the public for its authentic and well-written reports about national matters. Nattional matters need not necessarily be pleasing always.

All reporters are like any other human beings. He works, lives on his salary , gets married and look for good family life. He takes interests in matters that concerned everyone of us and often dwells in perplexities of life. But the main glamour belongs to the “brand name” created by the institution. It has the ability to change the lives of many people. So, to create such a revolution, it needs a leadership sensitive enough to understand the business of newspaper.

Freedom is a costly affair and if one cannot convey the message one wants to convey for whatever reasons, management or biasness, fear or personal interest, then the essence of newspaper becomes questionable.

Today, we are plagued by many problems. All the past generations had problems too but we are looking for new knowledge to tackle the problems we are facing now and only the newspaper can do it. Therefore, the newspaper has a double duty. It must comport itself so that it is read, listened or seen by mature people because of its reliability, and by young people because of its forward look. If the media do not have any of these elements, we might as well stop believing that we live in new Bhutan.

Many years ago, on my way to my village, I happened to meet one of my village cousins playing with his friends. He insisted that I should meet his mother, my paternal aunt, who was at home brewing some ara. As custom demanded, I paid her a visit. Over few cups of ara, I wanted to find out how many cows she owned because cattle in Bhutan are treated at par with other family wealth.
“ Hang ophey ya, wa bu-dang thurr shu cha. Onu bu nuu gurbu thurr phang gana, mala khung thurr rang (just have one cow that gives about one cup milk. Useless cow).“ When I was a little child, I remember that my grandpa had at least milking cow and many calves and bulls. I told my aunt that looking after one cow is not only waste of time, energy and resources but also destroying the life of my cousin. He spent his life running after a cow which gave just one cup of milk. When I suggested her to sell it off, she said that she had to keep the cow for the fertilizer. The cow dungs are good fertilizers she remarked.
Well, fertilizer or no fertilizer, lives of many children are getting wasted chasing after one cow in the villages. Maybe it’s time for co-operative dairy farms, especially those near the town and urban areas so that both the village and town are benefitted. At a rate of one cow business, Bhutan would not only waste the lives of many young children .

Weeks ago, my friend called from Bhutan asking me to give some money to his wife whom he said was in Bangkok for some business. After meandering through the Bangkok traffic during the afternoon heat, I was able to locate his wife sitting lost on a sofa of the hotel lobby. She looked relieved though when she saw me coming. She had come to Bangkok for Visa business.
After loaning her 200 dollars, I offered to treat her with ice tea from a convenience store nearby. She looked troubled. When asked about the reason, she said that her US visa application was rejected by the US Embassy. She had paid Nu. 400,000 to the broker who offered to arrange for an invitation letter from USA. The broker’s deal was that if his client got visa, the full Nu. 4, 00,000 deposited while applying for visa with the broker got forfeited. The broker had guaranteed 99 percent that her visa would be through. Well, thats what business is all about. She had a deal with her broker that if the visa got rejected, some Nu.150,000 got forfeited out of Nu. 4,00,000 deposit and rest was returned. The airfare, hotel and other miscellaneous expenses fell beyond blind spots.
In order to satiate “beautiful future” dream of his wife, my friend took loan from banks to upfront security with broker. When his wife’s visa got rejected, the couple was dragged into predicament. They had a dream that the dollars earned in US would not only offset the loan but would also ferry them to elite class of “Land cruiser and building owners.” It was a beautiful dream. Visa rejection woke them up to reality. The reality of loan repayment. Dream of money happiness had recoiled.
Days later I wondered if my friend’s wife would have ended happily even if she got visa to go to US. Leaving her own child of three years, she was attempting to babysit someone else's child in US. The money she paid to the broker for processing US visa, she may well have spent in running a profitable business in Bhutan. I have lived in US for a very short while. It’s a great place if you have money to spend but if you are someone looking for pasture, you better have the sickle sharp enough to lay the green grass. If you have none, pray that American Jesus save you. That sickle I am talking about are your skills.
Many years ago, many young Tibetans pursued the same dream of living across the fence. Their parents also took loan from friends and others in a hope that their children would send them back money once they started working in US. The children neither sent the money nor they returned. The parents spent sleepless nights worrying about the loan to repay while the children squatted in a crowded room in "Queens" to make sense of life. Majnu Ki Tilla in Delhi where many Tibetans live and Bhutanese frequent is also known as “ Majung Pai Threla” among Tibetans which roughly means “ a place of unsuccessful people." It is said that all Tibetans who have been unsuccessful in college, getting job, getting visa, bankrupt in business, politically knocked out, and down in life gather at Majnu Ki Tilla…..oh! Majung Pai Threla. I think thats not a nice transit camp to US, at least not for Bhutanese. The only nice thing you get at " Majung Pai Threla" is momo at one of the Tibetan shops.

Major (Retd) Namgay (name changed) of Police comes to my office seeking information about the post retirement benefits. He looked too young to retire so out of curiousity I asked him why he wanted to retire so early. He looked at me and said, “ Seniors in my office are getting younger instead of getting older. Some of them were 55 last year but this year when their retirement age is nearing, they are 54. Instead of retiring, they seem to be getting promoted. They keep replacing their falling teeth with gold ones and keep getting prosperous.” He laughs at his own statement and scornfully adds “ they seem to have excluded weekends, Government and public holidays and non-working days from their age. So the younger ones have nowhere to go except retire and find solace elsewhere.”

I laugh with him. I guess many people in civil service and corporations are also getting younger everyday. It proves from the fact that one of the most prioritized shopping items for many Bhutanese going to Bangkok is an anti-aging cream.

Ram Singh wakes up earlier than usual on the day of Vishwakarma. In absence of any other Hindu priest , Ram Singh was given charge to appease Lord Vishwakarma on behalf of NPPF office with Nu. 5000 budget every year.
Ram Singh opens his canteen first to pick up the balloons, ribbons and cello tape and of course all the unsold samosas from his canteen. He calls someone to help him carry his bag while he goes to every chamber and cubicles and mumbles some incomprehensive words to computers, telephones, printers and heaters and stick some vermillion powder on every item he pretends to have prayed for. After the prayer in the office is done, he waits for the staff to arrive with their cars. He looks at the money being placed on the plate which carries vermillion powder. If it is less than Nu. 100, he just put a red mark and prays that the car be prevented from accident for six months. If the offered money is more, he hurriedly sticks some ribbons and balloons and make it look like a cart of some rural Rajasthan. He then prays that it be saved from accidents for a year.
Then the boss’s Prado arrives. He goes round the big car and mumbles many prayers for the SUV and himself. What he prays for SUV is a mystery but for himself, he prays that he may be allowed to run the office canteen for few more years.
When the staff goes to work, they find the Lord’s blessings in the form of samosa from Ram Singh’s canteen. Eating the blessed dry samosa is difficult, so the staff order tea from Ram Singh’s canteen which smells of staleness of the cheap thermos flask.
Ram Singh himself is busy. He counts profit on his office desks, picks his car key and goes to the petrol pump to have full tank.

(This essay was written by a twentieth century essayist whose name I do not know. I found it among popular essays being sent to me by a friend of mine. I thought this is so relevant for Bhutan today, especially at this point of time when people are so confused about being in democratic country. People from villages to students studying abroad seems to discuss politics at every available opportunity. But if we look at some of the discussions, we need to reflect once again whether Bhutanese have actually transcended into twenty first century. If we could ask for rights, maybe we are also obliged for some duty. So I hope this essay "The Rule of the Road" would give many Bhutanese some reflective insights.)


A stout old lady was walking with her basket down the middle of a street in Petrograd to the great confusion of the traffic and with no small peril to herself. It was pointed out to her that the pavement was the place for pedestrians, but she replied: 'I'm going to walk where I like. We've got liberty now.' It did not occur to the dear old lady that if liberty entitled the pedestrian to walk down the middle of the road, then the end of such liberty would be universal chaos. Everybody would be getting in everybody else's way and nobody would get anywhere.

Individual liberty would have become social anarchy. There is a danger of the world getting liberty-drunk in these days like the old lady with the basket, and it is just as well to remind ourselves of what the rule of the road means. It means that in order that the liberties of all may be preserved, the liberties of everybody must be curtailed. When the policeman, say, at Piccadilly Circus steps into the middle of the road and puts out his hand, he is the symbol not of tyranny, but of liberty. You may not think so. You may, being in a hurry, and seeing your car pulled up by this insolence of office, feel that your liberty has been outraged. How dare this fellow interfere with your free use of the public highway? Then, if you are a reasonable person, you will reflect that if he did not interfere with you, he would interfere with no one, and the result would be that Piccadilly Circus would be a maelstrom that you would never cross at all. You have submitted to a curtailment of private liberty in order that you may enjoy a social order which makes your liberty a reality.

Liberty is not a personal affair only, but a social contract. It is an accommodation of interests. In matters which do not touch anybody else's liberty, of course, I may be as free as I like. If I choose to go down the road in a dressing-gown whoshall say me nay? You have liberty to laugh at me, but I have liberty to be indifferent to you. And if I have a fancy for dyeing my hair, or waxing my moustache (which heaven forbid), or wearing an overcoat and sandals, or going to bed late or getting up early, I shall follow my fancy and ask no man's permission. I shall not inquire of you whether I may eat mustard with my mutton. And you will not ask me whether you may follow this religion or that, whether you may prefer Ella Wheeler Wilcox to Wordsworth, or champagne to shandy.

In all these and a thousand other details you and I please ourselves and ask no one's leave. We have a whole kingdom in which we rule alone, can do what we choose, be wise or ridiculous, harsh or easy, conventional or odd. But directly we step out of that kingdom, our personal liberty of action becomes qualified by other people's liberty. I might like to practice on the trombone from midnight till three in the morning. If I went on to the top of Everest to do it, I could please myself, but if I do it in my bedroom my family will object, and if I do it out in the streets the neighbors will remind me that my liberty to blow the trombone must not interfere with their liberty to sleep in quiet. There are a lot of people in the world, and I have to accommodate my liberty to their liberties.

We are all liable to forget this, and unfortunately we are much more conscious of the imperfections of others in this respect than of our own. A reasonable consideration for the rights or feelings of others is the foundation of social conduct.It is in the small matters of conduct, in the observance of the rule of the road, that we pass judgment upon ourselves, and declare that we are civilized or uncivilized. The great moments of heroism and sacrifice are rare. It is the little habits ofcommonplace intercourse that make up the great sum of life and sweeten or make bitter the journey.

Sometimes in 2006, when the whole country was rushing to pose for new identity card, a class teacher of one of the schools in southern Bhutan received a leave application from one of his students. The first line of the application read, “… since I am suffering from identity card making, I am not able to attend the class today....” The teacher had been used to hearing that his pupils were suffering from diarrhoea, scabies and other diseases but surely not from identity card making.
It sounds funny when we hear it for the first time but when we ponder over his suffering, people are not just suffering from identity card making alone but from many things, especially from the burden of inefficiencies.
Sometimes I wonder how farmers get their job done in the offices. It feels like the offices are there to do people a favour. It works perfectly though if you have connections. This may be the reason why sharchokpas have huge extension of their family lines like banyan trees. Mind you but, many relations are based on who is worth being connected.
So talking about connections, many people get jobs through connection and not selection. Selection interviews are just a drama created to get some nice working lunch which people don’t get to eat at home much. The candidates are selected weeks before interview. The interview would been already done twice before the results are published for the winning candidate. One is done by the father or anyone who is got influential polarity on the phone long before. Of course you need Qualification. But more so, you need Thekalification. Thekal in Lhotsham would mean a push factor. It sounds like motivation theory from some management lessons, doesn’t it?
However, some years ago, a young boy, aspiring to join NRTI was attending an interview. He had a good score. While entering the interview room, he left the doors opens. One of the committee members asked him to close the door. He did. He gave a little harder than a gentle back kick to the door and it closed. He was out.
Then the first democratic election showered upon the people. The result was impressive. Wasn’t it? More than the elections, we are impressed by the kingmakers. There are office politicians, dangerous ones, doing office politics everyday. Its impressive how they can play around people and bosses. I do not feel that our politicians would do us more harm than those lurking behind office cubicles and chambers. It makes me shake like jelly. Bhutan has surely become a breeding ground for cronies. Sadly we have them a lot.
So, like the opening line from the movie Madagascar, we may be lucky to be landing somewhere as a new deomocratic country but we may be crash landing unfortunately.Till then we will able be suffering from not just identity card making but everything....

…this was a story of an old Gomchen called Mentong who came from a remote village. All his life he saved all the money he could by reading scriptures to go on pilgrimage to India. It took three years of saving for him to finally feel his dream become a reality. He was so much excited that he went to Bodh Gaya three weeks before the “Moenlam Chenmo”, the great prayer session actually began.

Permitted within his provision of food and money, he traveled to all the pilgrim sites including Varanasi, Rajgriha, Sarnath and ancient university of Nalanda. Wherever possible, he offered butter lamps and money and he prostrated before each statue as others did. He was taken with surprises by the size of the statues and temples .He gazed at the multistoried buildings and more than the colonies of antlike count of people.

As the Moenlam Chenmo started, the number of people started to swell to the extent that all empty spaces were filled with pilgrims residing in tents and makeshifts huts. There were monks and lamas who in the throng looked like ripe oranges and apples. Never in the life of Mentong did he see such a huge assembly of monks and Lamas. He was filled with so much devotion that he ate tshogs(food and fruit offerings) and duetse(elixir) , given during the meonlam with closed eyes and prayed that he gets another opportunity to come back to this place again next year also.

Soon the moenlam chenmo ended and people started to return to the places they had come from. Most of them had come from the places he had never heard of or even thought that there was anything like he had heard about.

Before he finally bundled up his clothes and the remaining of the provisions, he went round the temples nearby to make his final prayers and prostrations.

As he returned to his own bamboo hut, which was about to fall on its own, he vied upon a small nut like mysterious piece of thing collecting dust just outside his hut. Picking it up, he gazed through it like studying the distant stars with the telescope. There he saw the fire burning inside the frozen water cut into shape, which would melt only when the world perished. He had heard about a very very rare treasure called Chu Shey Mey Shey and the one in his hand now fit the descriptions of it. “Ya lama, this is a Norbu (treasure) Chu Shey Mey Shey”, thought he. “Whose must it be? He wondered . Whosever it was, he would now be taking it. It was his lucky day while it was the owner’s bad luck.

Now he was in great hurry to go. He picked up everything he could in a little time and bundled them into his old bag. He covered his newly found treasure with Khada (ceremonial scarf), and placed it inside the prayer wheel he took everywhere he went. The scriptures inside the prayer wheel had to give place to Norbu now. He placed the scriptures alongside the other scriptures, which was distributed by some rich Jinda, patrons, during the moenlam chenmo, great prayer assembly. Then he walked out suspicious of all the strangers he met on the road. His chest could not handle the excitement of getting such treasure so the heart raced against the usual rhythm of speed.

Once in the bus, he held the prayer wheel very dear and slept holding it and woke many times as it fell out of his grip. He cursed himself many times for letting it happen and going to sleep. Once he reached Phuentsholing, the border town of Bhutan, he was relieved of the fear that the real owner of the Norbu would be coming to claim it. He was so much shocked that no one ever breathed of the lost Norbu. “Maybe the owner didn’t as yet know that it is lost or maybe it fell from the sky with the rain,” he thought.

When he finally reached home, he was ecstatic to see the Norbu Chu Shey Mey Shey. He closed the door, put on the light and unwrapped the treasure. It reflected the light from the lamp and he was unable to sleep that night again. He put it under his pillow and wanted to see what kind of dream he would see. He saw the people trying to snatch his Norbu from him and also heard a voice telling him that the place of the Norbu is not under his pillow but inside the altar with the statues of Buddha, Guru Rinpoche and his manifestations.

Waking up the next day, he wrapped the Norbu in all colors of scarves. He then offered his prostrations and finally putting it on his head and getting its blessings, he placed it in the altar near the statue of Buddha.

The village people came in the afternoon to meet him and also to hear the stories he had to tell them. He told them of his experiences of not finding a forest to relieve himself in times of stomach disorder, having to travel by the three wheeled motor and also of the hugeness and sizes of the temples, statues and other buildings. He told them of his experience of riding a train whose head and tail was impossible to see. Most people were fascinated with the stories of his travel. He told them of the story of the Norbu Chu Shey Mey Shey and how he got it but he never allowed them to see it. He gave a wang (blessing) with it.

The words went round the village that the Gomchen has the Norbu which was very very rare not just in this country but in the whole world. The men folks just teased him to sell it to them or change it for half a dozen milking cow but he refused. He said that even if the whole world was given to him, he still would not change it and let alone selling it off. It had simply become priceless.

Over the years many people came to hear about the Norbu and most exaggerated its power but the faith was such that everyone believed it. There was nothing sacred than the Norbu he had in the world now and let alone the village. So the villagers took his house as more sacred.

One day a group of villagers had come to collect some contribution for the festival. They found that the Gomchen had died that very night in bed. They passed on the message to his relatives who gathered there at his house. They prepared for his funeral rites and also for the cremation. Other village monks were also called and many had gathered for his last session as is always done in the villages. The villagers talked of the Norbu but no one dared put hands on it for fear of being accused by others. Some readily said that the rarity of the Norbu is also associated in possessing it and not all people get to possess it except those who have accumulated so much virtue in their previous lives.

Soon Mentong’s Norbu had been passed on to his Nephew, who was his closest relative alive. The nephew who had come for the funeral of his uncle was given the Norbu in presence of all the villagers.

Nephew unwrapped the khada and to his surprise, the Norbu that they so much talked about was the glass nuts, which the children played and called marble. It was small and the bubble inside was red so the frozen flame covered by the frozen water.

The Nephew however, didn’t let the truth known for it was the matter of faith of his uncle even though it was the fruit of the ignorance. There was no ways that his uncle would have known that there was anything like that. He never had an opportunity to play the glass nuts or marble anytime in his life before nor did he see any children play in the villages he had been. He never had the opportunity to see and know what the real Norbu Chu Shey Mey Shey looked like for the rarity of it never allowed anyone the privilege except in the folklores and scriptures heard from some other people.

Be it any monument or the chorten, it is still stones carved to shapes. It is the faith and devotion that made it sacred. The marble turned into the epitome of faith and devotion and more precious than the actual Norbu Chu Shey Mey Shey. The nephew put it inside a statue of Manjushri, the God of Wisdom, whom he purchased and donated to the village temple dedicating it to his late uncle’s name with all the other things required for one and immortalized him forever. There talked the people then not of the small glass nut but the tale of Norbu Chu Shey Mey Shey and made the faith and devotion of one man the monument, holier than the life itself. There, the lives remain scattered everywhere but faith and true devotion was blessed to few only.

(Until the establishment of formal education system in Bhutan in later half of the twentieth century, education in Bhutan was limited to few privileged ones in the monasteries which was run by monks and few learned scholars. Since the disciples mostly lived with the master, they often had to work in their master’s field as they studied. )

…the spring had finally arrived and amidst the splendour of fragrance and colours, the lives began to renew itself. There was a hope clothed in dream and the dream bathed in unknown measure of life.

…leaving behind the uncertainties, life still had to be led even if it meant in odd measures of time for everyone. So it says that in a place called Ritsang Dung, some three hours journey from Tashigang Dzong, people were getting ready to live with the times.

The plantation of the paddies had already started in the village. The farm hands arrived from neighbors and relatives. They sang in tune with the rhythmic splashes of the mud under their feet and very often threw mud balls to each other exciting surprises and shrill cries. If this meant life, people were never old enough to play.

Happy times went by, and soon the rain announced the arrival of the summer. There were dreams of bountiful crops that would last them through the next harvest. Each drop of rain trickled happiness.

An old master who lived in a lone hermitage on the top of the hill with his twenty disciples also shared this dream. One day as they sat down to have dinner, he said to them, “ look children, we have to earn our lives again.”

So every evening after the day’s lesson, two disciples went down to their master’s paddy field, which was about half an hour walk down hill to course the stream into it. They would return to the hermitage after the work, close their day with prayer and then go to sleep.

Summer swelled the stream with bountiful rain and soon the paddy turned gold from green, and the plants bent low with its own weight. The melody of harvest could be here any moment because the breath of autumn was everywhere. The orchards smelled of ripe apples, and the ground was cushioned with falling leaves. Wind whistled silence and grandmother sang spontaneously as she prepared ara for the tired souls coming home after the work. But happy times are like our own shadows that scare us in the darkness and the heaven above, if not charmed like a snake can sour the milk and lives alike.

It was nearing dusk. Inside the hermitage, Kelsey and Jurme watched the heavy drop of rain fall outside as they muttered verses from the old sutra and tried to memorize it. As the vision blurred and the disciples began to strain the eyes trying to find words on the hand encrypted deysho paper, the priest dispersed the class for the day but Kelsey and Jurme had a duty to fulfil. It was their turn to course the stream to their master’s field.

Kelsey and Jurme, both aged twelve years looked like a raw cane shoot just blooming up because of their thin stature. Clad in monk’s robe, they had left home, parents and relatives in search of wisdom at a very tender age of four. At that age their friends still sat on their mother’s lap, while Kelsey and Jurme had started finding holes in the realities of life. They have been given the bare taste of reality and they have learnt to earn it a hard way.
That night they carried banana leaves in one hand and spade in another and ran past the grassy edge of the path trying to avoid the muddy patches, which caused an itch between the toes. When they reached the field, breath stole their soul away. The water in the terrace had escaped breaking the mud walls and the duty demanded that they repair the mud walls at the earliest to avoid more damage.

Kelsey and Jurme struggled without shade to replace the falling mud walls. There was the tempest of the God at its grandest peak and the efforts of the two frail disciples did not match it. By the midst of the night, fear took possession of their mind. Jurme stood between wrath and despair. The teardrops were lost amidst the raindrops on the small worn out cheeks.

Jurme picked up the spade and made up his mind to return to the hermitage while Kelsey simply stood mute refusing to go back. The shame that he might face in front of his master trying to explain of unfulfilled duty left him mute. Jurme in a fit of anger left without a word and Kelsey stood there watching him go.

Kelsey picked up the spade and started replacing the falling mud wall of the terrace but each time the strong gush of water washed away everything. When the energy inside him deserted too, he had one thing to offer and that was himself. He folded his small hands into a lotus and offered his last prayer and placed himself between the washed off mud wall and slept there blissfully.

When Jurme returned with his master and other mates, there was a perfect peace on Kelsey’s face. The angels had lifted him to the heaven where his little devotion had earned him a place there.

The next day, the pyre of sandalwood was set ablaze. The old master kissed Kelsey’s feet and declared that it was the best gift that any soul be it in heaven or mortal’s world would envy to receive. The rainbow cast its final tribute as the rain fell mild and humble even as the Sun stood strong against the jealousy of wind.

… another Spring had arrived and amidst the splendour of fragrance and colours, the lives began to renew itself. There was a hope clothed in dream and the dream bathed in unknown measure of life….

(For centuries, many nobles in Bhutan owned serfs who worked for them. In 1958, the third king, His Majesty Jigme Dorji Wangchuk, in one of the many major social reforms drive, declared freedom to the serfs and also distributed lands to them.

This story draws an atmosphere of celebration in the name of the freedom by many serfs who worked in Trashigang Dzong then and became free from the bondage of the lifetime but also paints an image of lives of few who could not adopt to the freedom….)

Amidst the splendour of the night, the moon harpooned itself amongst the host of dark clouds. The gentle breeze from Dangmechu below echoed the very silence of souls taking rest after hard work in the fields. This was the night repeated all through life till now from the time unknown, punctuated by bangchen garpas coming from the Punakha.

This was one night in early Spring. Every soul was sleeping then when a long note of kangdung could be heard from below the Tashigang Dzong. Immediately there was a sign of restlessness among the Dzongpon , the fort governor, and his retinue since a bangchempa was arriving with a royal decree.

A late night dinner consisting of rice alongwith curry of all the meats available in the dimly lit store were ordered to be prepared. There was a complete chaos among the retinue.

It was a long anxious wait until the bangchempa finally arrived. Escorted straight to the altar room of the Dzong, he was seated on the best doe hide with his patang across his waist. Choktse, a small wooden table, was placed in the front from where he picked his phorb to drink the ara . Dzongpon and other officials listened as he blurted out amongst hiccups. “ All slaves working for the Dzong and the rich landlords are to be freed by dawn tomorrow. This is a royal decree. Please pour some wine into this phorb.”

There was a mixed reaction among the people present. The crowded room soon buzzed with people whispering. As the bangchempa rose to walk back after the dinner, the officials prepared a torch out of dried bamboo and pine raisin. He was escorted back till the bridge by one of the men running errands for the Dzongpon.

The news had already leaked out inside the Dzong. There was discontentment among a fraction of the rich landlords but it had always been their way of life.

In another corner of the Dzong, there was one room where all the slaves spent the night. This room was deprived of all the comforts that the officials in the Dzong were entitled to except the leftover foods, which is two meals a day from the common kitchen. The menu was suja, (butter tea), tsampa (wheat flour) and porridge day in and day out. The slaves occupying this room did little errands for the cooks to get a little share of rancid butter…but there was nothing called rancid that time. Everything they got was a feast.

The news came as a reason to celebrate. It didn’t take much time for the slaves to arrange for the wine. They begged the nyerchen, the store officer for some wine.

After all what was the face of celebration in life they knew of. Of course they dreamt to be home tending to their own families and cattle. They dreamt of wearing a new gho and not the patched ones. There was a dream of children, the attic full of maize hanging on the roof beams and on the bamboo baskets and a continuous supply of wine.

They screamed the coming freedom with excitement. They had already begun to quench the taste of the freedom.

In one corner of the room was Tobgay, trying to sleep. The latest news of freedom was the end of the life under bondage but to Tobgay, he was not used to it. He didn’t understand what course took him to be a free man for he had neither family, house nor any place to belong to. Freedom to him only meant a decent gho to wear without patching the worn out one again and again or to sleep peacefully after a hard day on the hard planks even if it meant without much to cover.

He had never seen anything more than the Dzong to crave nor did he ever know how he came to be in the Dzong. Never did he try questioning his existence even under the bondage for he was self-content with what he got from the Dzong.

Jaling announced the arrival of the dawn from across the Dzong where the monks dwelt. It came earlier than Tobgay had waited. The same share of time crawled for all those who dreamt to go home, free men.

Kudrung slapped the whip on the door of each room, and the people of all ranks gathered on the courtyard of the Dzong. The Dzongpon formally announced the news to the assembly of both the officials and the slaves. He also remarked that all should leave the Dzong that very morning. Other slaves bundled up whatever little possession they claimed theirs.

Tobgay left the Dzong but only to reside on the little hilltop above the Dzong in a small hut made crudely with the branches and wild ferns. And each day when the Jaling blew to announce the arrival of the new day, he would crane his neck and dream to go back to the Dzong for even under the bondage, he had something to eat at the end of the day.

The officials soon discovered Tobgay’s quiet abode. For fear of being accused wrongly by the higher authority that Tobgay is retained still as the slave, they chased him away from his home. They reprimanded him not to come back.

Tobgay went from village to village working for food and very often slept in the barns until one day he was found dead near a village stream. The gup informed the Dzongpon that a former slave had died near the village stream. The kudrung who woke him up while he was in Dzong heard of his death. The Kudrung went to the inner altar of the Dzong and burned a lone butter lamp in Tobgay’s name and declared, “ Your soul is freed too.”

Soon the strong breeze blowing from the Dangme chu blew off the lamp and he was never remembered again. Whoever remembered a quietly lived poor man?

(Continued from the book "Shadow Around the Lamp"
The night came home again, but this time it was not alone. The anxiety began to dig itself and each drop of rain brought fear. Yangtsho’s father had gone to attend the funeral rites of one of the relatives in the village and he had failed to return even after three days.

“Must be gambling somewhere again,” grumbled Yangtsho but there was a hope that he would be here any moment. The fire in the mud stove blazed unwillingly, while kharang, the maize powder turned from gold to coal.

Yangtsho sat near the stove warming herself without dinner in an expectation that her father would return home any moment now. She went to sleep waiting for him.

Yangtsho have learnt to live life as it came. Her parents had divorced when she was less than five months old and she lived with her mother until she was eleven years of age. Her mother had married again to a village priest who would come home drunk from the houses he would go to perform rites. Even as a child, she would go out to graze cattle and would help her mother look after her baby stepbrother.

Circumstances had matured her faster than the Mother Nature had groomed her by age. As she grew older, her stepfather took to strong dislike in her because she was not his daughter and also that she argued with him often.

One day her stepfather came home from his usual round of reading scriptures and performing rites. As usual he started showing his wild nature again of abusing both the mother and herself and this time, she wouldn’t keep quiet. He picked up burning firewood and hit her on the waist. This infuriated Yangtsho and her mother too. While Yangtsho reached for the sickle hanging on the door, her mother had snatched the burning wood from her stepfather and had started the tussle. Yangtsho burned inside with rage and finally crumbled down near the door feeling scared. Her mother helped her on her feet and patted her to say sorry. There was no display of emotions although both of them felt very strong about it.

With the awakening of the dawn, Yangtsho had decided to go to stay with her father. She bundled a single torn kira her mother had woven for her inside the bamboo basket and started walking out of the door refusing to look back. The creaking door woke her mother who followed her across their maize field. As she reached the chorten below their field, her mother called out “Ausa , wait.”

Yangtsho turned around to see her mother trying to catch a breath. “Where do you think you are going at this hour?” came between the broken voices. Yangtsho caught her lips between her teeth and the explosion of emotions burst into tears.

“Where Apa stays …”, was everything she could say and as she bend down trying to find words, the tears branched in her cheek and most fell on her lips.

The silence spoke for them until her mother pulled the silver bangles from her hand and put it in her hands. “This is everything I can give you,” was everything she said. As her mother told her how to find the way to her father’s house, she poured some ara from the wooden palang . Yangtsho tore a banana leaf and folded it into cup and drank some ara from there.

As Yangtsho took her path, her mother stood watching her go with wet eyes. She waved with one hand while she rubbed the tears with the other until Yangtsho plunged into heart of still darkness. An occasional “ Awuuuuu wu” was exchanged until both heard no more.

It took Yangtsho three days to reach her father’s home. Her small legs took her across beautiful meadows and forests where small children played as they grazed the cattle. At Night she would find a house along the path and ask for a space to sleep. All those people in whose house she slept were related either to her father or to her mother. They ate and talked during the supper and when she left in the morning, they would pack some wine and food to eat on the way.

Yangtsho reached her father’s house late in the evening. A lone cowherd could be heard singing at the top of his voice amidst the jingling of the bells of the cattle returning to the pens. Maybe this is called the music of the life but “will apa recognize me” feeling grazed her mind until she reached her new home now.
Her father was outside the house pouring some used malt from the huge cauldron into the trough of the cattle. He didn’t notice her until he walked back to pour more malt. He came closer to her and asked when she reached. Her father had not forgotten her face although it was two years ago that he saw her at the village temple during the tshechu . He cut some nettle plants and just murmured some words as he pretended to clean her with it. It was believed that the evil spirits who had come alongwith her would go back while doing these. He then took the nettles on the crossroad of paths and left there under a huge rock so that the spirit wouldn’t come out of it.

Soon the young village girls who have gone to collect firewood saw her. They told their parents and others that she has returned to her father now. The relatives came to meet her bringing some gifts like wine, eggs, cheese and some butter. The house seemed suddenly alive. The elders sat on the hides, while some sat on the bare wooden floor. The young girls giggled near the mud stove as the older ones sat talking about the things that were happening in their family. Everyone had a dinner of kharang alongwith some gravy of potatoes. There was some scent of the dry fish too but whoever got it must have been very lucky. It was a treat anyway with the ara getting poured on the phorb everytime and there was enough for everyone.

The crowd finally dispersed and although she had reached her father’s house, her heart burnt thinking about everything that happened with her stepfather and she burnt more that she couldn’t do anything than cry.

The next morning she went to collect firewood with the women folk of her village and returned home before the Sunset to cook dinner and attend to other works. She had finally begun to taste life like any other women of her times.

Six years flew past. There were occasional spray of misunderstanding with her father and her friends but it was a part of the life. Yangtsho’s father often went out to gamble and very many times he wouldn’t come home for nights together. She chided him often but he would never say anything.

One time he had staked his best ox, which he lost. Buying the replacement would cost many days of work in some people’s field but fortunately they had two more.

This night seemed very long a wait for Yangtsho. As she put more wood in the fire, she kept looking out of the window to see if her father was coming and went back to sleep sitting again.

Yangtsho woke up startled in the night to hear a heavy knock on the door. She pulled the latch to see that her father had returned. He stood on the door gazing blankly. There was no sign of any feeling on his face. The strong smell of ara filled the distance between them. “Where had you been?” shouted Yangtsho at him. He looked at her again but no words came from him. Then a moment later he pointed towards her wrist and said, “Give me your bangles”.

Yangtsho waved her head. “No not for the dice, it is my mother’s…”. Her father didn’t want to hear it. The reason was drowned in wine that smelled in his breath. He tried to convince her that he would return it to her but she would never part with it. When he couldn’t assure her anymore, he pulled the patang and planted her to immortality. He stabbed her five times on the stomach.

He carried the bangles and ran to gamble again. Before the warmth in Yangtsho’s eyes died, he had staked everything that was in his name…the house, cattle, land and now also the daughter. When nothing remained and the wine had also finished its effect, he stabbed himself. He couldn’t face himself to the shame of going nowhere, the shame of staking the daughter and the shame of being such a father who couldn’t afford life to an only child.

Soon the rainwater buried him in the maize field that belonged to the friend where he gambled and could never return home. Yet the spirit of his daughter waits to this day for his return.

(From the book "Shadow Around the Lamp")


Many centuries ago, until the invasion of Tibet in the nineteen fifties, the Bhutanese went on pilgrimage to Tsari Rongkor in Tibet. Unlike the annual ritual held in Bodh Gaya these days, the Tsari Rongkor pilgrimage was hosted one time every twelve years in the year of the monkey.

Tsari Rongkor, which lies to the south of Tibet, is a pilgrimage site dedicated to Vajra Warahi, a Dakini popularly known as Dorji Phagmo . This is a place of three-layered cliffs. Women and children can only go as far as the middle layer since the third layer is open only to men.

Bhutanese from all over the country traveled to Tsari Rongkor on foot carrying their own provisions of food which lasted for two to three months. All the pilgrims, coming from various parts of the country, met at a particular place on the appointed day before they finally began their pilgrimage. When all the people had finally gathered, they made an agreement with the locals residing in that area. The pilgrims would pay some cash, cattle and even some provisions of food to the local people in exchange for an assurance from them that they would not harm anyone coming on pilgrimage to their area. It was believed at that time that the local people of that area ate human flesh. However, killing anything only defeated the sole purpose of coming to Tsari Rongkor.

The paths were narrow, suitable for only one person at a time to cling and move on, but being the time of pilgrimage, many people walked alongside each other. They had to catch hold of creepers and walk forward cautiously. But despite the danger, people still visited this place. When they had finally finished going round all the holy sites, and had returned safely to the place they first began, the Tibetans who had also come for pilgrimage treated them to meals and wine.

Returning home, they brought back with them Tsari Nyugma, a species of bamboo, which grew abundantly in Tsari but was at that time non-existent in Bhutan. This Tsari Ngugma, which is used for rituals and as a talisman, was brought from Tsari as a gift for the relatives and villagers who remained at home. Since bringing Tsari Nyugma involved severe hardship, and also because of its rarity in Bhutan, many songs and poems were composed about it. Some songs even compare a beautiful lady to Tsari Nyugma. Although Tsari Nyugma is not beautiful, the hardship suffered in bringing it home makes it special and look beautiful mainly because of its rarity.

Today, we have one species of Tsari Nyugma growing in Bhutan which was brought from Tsari Rongkor and planted in Paro Chumphu, a pilgrimage site also dedicated to Dorji Phagmo.

The legend of Tsari Nyugma is slowly fading away with time. People have started going to Bodh Gaya, Varanasi, Sarnath, Raj Griha , Nalanda and other places in India. Some also go to visit caves like Ajanta and Ellora. At one point in history, the pilgrimage sites in India were completely destroyed but they were revived again later in the last century and over the years we have seen the number of pilgrims increasing.

While the increase in the number of people visiting these pilgrimage centres gives us an indication of an increase in religious or spiritual interest, many people have failed to make a pilgrimage within themselves. Buddhists believe in an “inner peace” which comes as a ‘prize’ for understanding self in the context of simple personal.

There is a need for every one going on pilgrimage to ask themselves why they are going and what they would like to learn to bring back home. While the people going to Tsari Rongkor staked their lives and brought back Tsari Nyugma as a gift, the gift today needs to change from the cheap locket of Buddha’s image pasted with crude glue to a perfect understanding of one’s purpose. Buddha has said that there is no eye like understanding and no blindness like ignorance.

If we do not understand why we are going and in the process do things that we believe are right but only hurt others, the purpose of going on pilgrimage is defeated.

Many go to pilgrimage centres to satiate their own wild desires. Some are on business trips while others are on some wild spree, but just going to holy places does not make anyone holy. Buddha said that if by going to holy places you become holy, what would happen to all the fish living in the Ganges? All the fish in the sacred Ganges would be in heaven by now.

Many people light butter lamps in thousands but how many really enlighten themselves with the simple purpose of why they are there? If there is no change in the person, crawling to the moon over one’s life time wouldn’t make any difference at all.

(This is a story of a teacher who struggled to keep balance in her life. The names of the people have been changed upon request and the narration kept in first person to make it easier to read)

Finally, the long wait was over. We had waited for three days to get our appointment and placement letter and here it was. The Dzongkhag Education Officer gave us a letter each and wished us luck. As immediately as I received the letter, I felt different. We were four of us; two women and two men. I was posted at Trashigang Jr. High School while the rest were posted at Jigme Sherubling High School.

All of us were excited. We were teachers now but more than my friends, I had many reasons to be happy. That night after the dinner, I left my friends at hotel room and took a long walk alone along the road towards Trashigang- Samdrup Jongkha highways. For one brief moment, I wanted to feel the cold wind touch my shoulder and take me wherever it went.

I had never dreamt of becoming a teacher. In fact, teaching had embraced me. Just as I was about to complete my twelfth grade exam, my parents divorced. My father left for Bumthang, leaving us all with mother to fend. We were three girl children and I was the youngest. Fortunately, my two older siblings were already working and somehow we lived on.

When the class twelve results were declared, I knew I would never qualify for scholarship outside the country. My teachers were expecting me to have topped the class but with my family splitting apart on exam days, I was lucky to have at least sat for the exams. I just barely qualified for teacher training at Samtse National Institute of Education.

This is where I met Kuenzang. We were in same class and over the time we were attracted to each other. We started to spend more time with each other. However, he had his own share of family problems but he refused to speak of it. Instead, he chose to forget by drinking. This is the time when our relationship started to lose definition. I wanted to help him but instead, I got more tangled in his madness. He felt like a fish bone struck somewhere in neck which would neither come out nor would go inside but would give pain all the time. There were times when he got into trouble with the law in fit of drunkenness. If he was not seen for few days, there was only one place to look, and it was a bar near the Dzong.

Both my studies and my friendship with everyone started to suffer. Kuenzang, who sat on the back seat, was the only person whom I could beat in studies while he beat me on ribs, cheeks and everywhere.

I had decided to quit the studies but have not thought of where I would go and what I would do. As I decided to pack and go, my friends told me to give a second thought on leaving the institute without no definite place to go but I was determined. I left the institute carrying a small bag where there were few clothes all bundled up inside it. I never thought of going home either. It would be better to stay in institute or just stray around than going home. I wanted to see Kuenzang for the last time but I dreaded the moments with him. But I still loved him. My future remained at fork edge.

On the way to the bus station, my mind dragged me to the gate of the institute lhakhang (temple). I wanted to be there to ask for forgiveness for not being able to drag my own life. Once inside, I paid my respect, said my prayers and made my exit. As I reached out to put on my shoes, I saw a lean figure stand before me. It was Madam Sangay, Physics teacher, who had also come to make prayers at the lhakhang.

As I stood up, and picked up the bag to leave, she wanted to know where I was leaving for. I tried to lie to her that my father was not well and I needed to be with him at hospital. She was not convinced. She told me to come with her to her house. I obliged.

Once inside, she looked at me and told me to do a small errand before I left. I obliged again. She gave me a very old Nu. 100 note, torn at the middle and told me to get a juice bottle from the Institute canteen. I looked at the note and wondered if the shopkeeper would accept such a note but I did run to the shop and got the juice. The shopkeeper, Ap Jigme, a baldy old man, in loose shirt and pyjamas, looked at it well and remarked if I had found it on the way but he still accepted it. He returned the changes and I hurried back.

Once I reached back, I returned the changes and gave her the juice bottle. She looked at the changes and said, “Phuntsho, did you notice how dirty, torn and worn out was the money I gave you to buy the juice?” I nodded in agreement. She smiled and said, “ Yet Ap Jigme accepted it.” I again nodded. “ You know why Ap Jigme accepted such an old, worn out note?” she was challenging me now. I stood in silence. “ It is because the note, no matter how worn out it was, still had a value. Many times in our lives, we feel worn-out, torn, crumpled and grounded into the dirt by the decisions we make and the circumstances that come our way. We feel worthless; but no matter what happened or what will happen, you will never lose your value. We do not create our value from what we do but whom we make of ourselves. And that value , we can only make from education. People are out there looking for chances to educate their children. They take loan and become indebted for years just to create value for their children and you are throwing it away like trash in the dust bin!!” she blew air with closed mouth and shook her head. I was numb. She poured some juice and water into two glasses and gave one to me. It seemed to put some sense in me.

Her warm hands ran across my cheek and it was the first time that I cried in peace. The tears drenched both my wonju and tego sleeves. She asked me many question and I remember answering them in broken voices. It felt like I had saved all my tears for this day to pour on her. She took me back to the hostel and made me promise to come to class that day. I nodded my promise. But I had another promise to make to myself. It was not to see Kuenzang’s face that day but the moment I entered the class, my eyes went straight to the bench he sat. He was there gazing at me but his eyes showed no emotions nor was he interested in talking to me. I closed my eyes as I sat down on the bench and screamed at myself that I do not want to think of him. I had to force him out of my mind. I did it everyday.

Some weeks later, he developed some health complications and his family members took him to Thimphu for treatment. I wished him quick recovery.

It took very long time to change. It was like taking another birth. Under the mountain of assignments, classes, works and activities, life started to renew slowly.

After all exams were over, I went to see Madam Sangay at her house. That day I cooked lunch for two of us and watched a movie with her. When I left her house, she put one Nu. 100 soiled note in my hand and told me that the note was her picture for me to remember. I guess that was the best picture I got from anyone in my life.

Being a teacher was one thing. Being taught was yet another thing. My life hung like hinges in between the door and pillar. I was holding the door for someone coming and holding myself to one moment of great lesson that changed my whole life.

…I went back to my hotel room. I took my purse, looked at the soiled note and cried alone. I guess I had a feeling of a teacher too.

(This story is a summarised version of the story called “Dramatic Performance in the Lotus Garden’’ being written by Patrul Rinpoche after being requested by a boy called Tashi Gelek.)

...dangpo dingpoooooo, there was a very beautiful forest at the foot of a very tall snow-clad mountain. In that forest lived a very young boy called Gakey Thaye Gyamtsho. He spent his days meditating in peace. When he did not meditate, he loved travelling and meeting people. He was a very intelligent and a friendly boy. Everyone who came across Gakey liked him.


Some distance from his hermitage, there was a very beautiful garden where many kinds of flowers grew in abundance. In the garden was a beautiful pond filled with many beautiful lotus growing.

Then one day, there came many swarms of honey bees zooming and playing in the forest and garden. Amongst these bees, two honeybees called Peta and Petu lived together as friends. Both the bees were young, full of energy, clever,open-minded and generous. They were also kind and were very soft in nature. These two bees, with their love for each other, lived and played together.

At that time there was a very learned Lama called Dhisum Khenpo who travelled places helping all sentient beings. He also came to the forest to meditate where the young Gakey and two bees Peta and Petu lived. The two bees visited the lama and paid their respects. They also offered the honey that they saved for the Winter to him and requested him for his teachings.The old lama was very pleased with the bees. He gave them simple Buddhist teachings and teachings that could make their lives meaningful. After teaching, he gave them his blessings and offered prayers dedicated to the two bees.

By wandering around, Lama Dhisum Khenpo satisfied the needs of all living beings who saw, heard, remembered or touched him. Then, many days later in a hermitage far away from the garden, he attained enlightenment. He left the world without even leaving his bodily remains like fuel which leaves no traces when burnt.

But for Peta and Petu, life went on as usual. Although they remembered the teachings of the Lama and tried practising it, they sometimes were careless. One day, while Petu was drinking some nectar from a flower and Peta was just hopping from one flower to another, the sky suddenly became dark with dark clouds covering the Sun. The flowers, all together, all at once, closed their petals. Petu was trapped within the flower. Suffocated and filled with fear, he was unable to speak.Peta was also filled with fear and helplessness. He tried doing everything, including the lifting of petals but he was helpless. They blamed the devils, begged the flowers to open its petals, begged the Sun to shine for a moment but all went in vain. In fact the sky started getting more darker. He called his friend’s name but he could only hear a faint sound as if his friend was calling him from another mountain.


Inside the flower, Petu was desperate trying to catch breath. He called his friend Peta in his feeble voice and made him hear his fear of death. He reminded Peta of the teachings of old Lama and told him how true it has come in his very short life. He wished that the Sun would shine again and he be saved before the death arrived. Petu was taken with remorse that what was once their place of enjoyment had now trapped him and was killing him. He repented for not being careful and for not practising the teachings his Lama had given him.

As they sat there talking, the sky rumbled and the storm started to rage. The flowers, instead of opening the petals, closed it more tightly. Trapped within the flower, Petu was soon suffocated to death.

As Peta sat there crying helplessly, there was a violent hailstones. The rainwater caused landslides and flooded the forest. It washed away everything that fell on its way. After sometime, the dark clouds cleared away and the bright sun rose again in the sky. Peta, who had taken shelter in a hole of a big tree went to check his friend in the garden. There was no garden left. The flood had washed away or flattened everything. There was no traces of any flowers. Peta found Petu’s corpse which was stiff by then. He could not help but cry again.

When he could gather some strength, he left for the mountains where the young boy Gakey lived. There were no more happy songs of dancing in the flowers. He sang a painful song of loneliness and sadness, of remorse and helplessness, of lama’s teachings and repentness. He promised to practice what his lama taught him.

The little boy Gakey, who was in his hermit meditating, heard the song of Peta and felt sorry for him. He was touched to hear the promise made by Peta to practice the teachings of Buddha but he thought that Peta must be making promises only because of the death of his very good friend. He thought that it was just a temporary remorse which Peta would soon forget. But Gakey decided to test him. So he called on Peta and asked him to forget the past and go on to live his life like he always did by dancing around the flowers and drinking sweet nectars. He advised him to be brave and forget his old friend. He told him that there were many friends even if one is lost and he should not despair. He also said that happiness and suffering goes in endless cycle, so he should not despair much.

Peta replied that it was not easy as the Gakey had thought. Peta cursed his ill fate and asked young Gakey to help him.

Gakey was pleased with Peta. He promised to help him. He told him that life is very uncertain and that is what Peta should learn first. He also said that either tomorrow or other life would come early but which one he said he didn’t know. Gakey gave Peta many teachings which would be very useful to him in order to live a fulfilling life.

Peta was really touched by the teachings Gakey gave him. He felt blessed. He thanked him with true heart and vowed to live a life that was fulfilling and purposeful. It was like being reborn again. Peta practised everyday diligently until he died.

This story is set amidst the backdrop of Bhutan some thirty years ago. Those days, it was like dawn for Bhutan. Some of the students whom Lopen Nado , Father Mackey and many Canadian Jesuit Evangelists had forcefully enrolled in the school had just completed some schooling. Now they were getting employed. All of those people who quit school got job easily because the government was short of manpower then. Life was hard though because the salary was minimum but the needs were also basic then.
During those days, there were few BGTS ( Bhutan Government Transport Service) bus and trucks. There was no scent of any cars. Phuntsho was a driver of one of the trucks which belonged to PWD. Truck driving was like being a pilot of a plane then. He had opportunities to travel all across the country and make some money ferrying people. Those who could afford paid him some money while he never took money from students and poor villagers. Instead he gave some pocket money to some students and told them to remember him when they later became Government officials. He was well known then as Driver Phuntsho.
During one of his usual travel from Trashigang to Samdrup Jongkha, he happened to ferry few villagers on the back of his trucks . When he reached Samdrup Jongkha, he was stopped by a policeman. The policeman demanded why he was carrying people on his truck. He explained to the policeman that the villagers could not catch bus so they had to travel with him. Despite explanation, the policeman slapped him. Phuntsho never forgot the day and the man.
Some fifteen years later, one winter evening, he was travelling from Thimphu to Trongsa. He stopped at Semtokha to pick up a family going towards Shemgang. He offered them a lift till Trongsa. As they reached Dochula, he stopped the truck and asked the family to get out of it. He then ordered his handyboy to throw the luggage of his passengers out into the snow. He had taken revenge. No one knew what happened to the passengers he left at Dochula that winter night.
There is an old saying in Bhutan which goes on to say that it is hard to repay the cost of rice but the people can certainly pay the cost of maize grains. It means that it is difficult to repay gratitude but people would never forget the hurt you cause them. They would certainly take revenge one day. I guess this is what it is.

Name : Dhendup...

Age: Twenty Three...

Qualification: Class XI appeared....appeared occasionally....



Meet Dhendup. No one knew his real name in school. They knew him very well though. He was “Centre Shock” in school. With one full container of Gel gone into maintaining his spike like hairs, his name did send some message.
As a local guardian, I was called by the school Principal to discuss him. There was nothing to discuss. Dhendup had made up his mind to do something else than going to school. I called his family and let them know that the Principal had called me to discuss him. Dhendup’s family were my family friends and we were quite close. I had known Dhendup from the day he was born.
On the way to school I met my subject of discussion. He was with a group of friends drinking some coke in one of the shops near the school. Well, coke don’t make one squint. But his eyes were squint and talked no sense. There was no point talking to him. I was happy talking to a dog sitting close by. At least the dog seemed to understand what he was told. I just got a blank look from him. So I decided to go and see the Principal instead.
Mr. Principal had many things to say but I was not interested in hearing the stories. I wanted to know what he had decided for Dhendup. They had decided to expel him from school. Expel. How can they expel him when Dhendup hardly came to school at all? His certificate also said that he had appeared Class XI Arts. It should have been " Appeared occasionally." I guess he had appeared in the class occasionally before deciding to quit.
I came back to my office, got the certificate copied and sent the original to his family through post. I forgot about him. Although I felt sad that he was messing his own life, I couldn’t even make him listen to him and let alone do what I had to say. I hung the certificate on my office wall. I don’t know why I did that.
Three years later I got a call from a police officer asking me to come and bail Dhendup out. Bail him out! I wanted to sue the Police Officer for having called me in the very first place and let alone bail Dhendup out.I called the police officer and gave him Dhendup’s home number and told him to call his family. Three hours later I got a call from Dhendup’s mother. She sounded desperate. I felt sorry for her so I decided to go to prison and see what I could do. The police wanted to release him only if I guaranteed that he would not commit crime again. He had broken the windshields of a car and had landed himself in a gangfight. I would rather guarantee that there would be rain three days later than guaranteeing Dhendup would not get into trouble. When I refused to sign any papers, the police officer didn't know what to do but he didn’t insist on signing it. He advised me to send him for rehabilitation. That was a great idea. I talked to his family and they all agreed to help him. For three days that he stayed with me, he slept whole day and watched movies whole night. That was bearable so long he did not get into trouble. He left for home and I never saw him after that.
Some two years later. I read that a man had died of overdose outside his hotel room in Phuntsholing. Police had found a body inside the drain. There was no name mentioned in the newspaper. Later I found from my family that it was Dhendup whom they had covered in the newspaper. What a poor way to live and die!!!
I often feel cold when I hear of such deaths. I feel bad that they should live a terrible life and die miserable death but the truth is that there are many young people dying everyday of drugs overdose in Bhutan. I don't even know if they deserved to be wept for. Probably they never deserve the tears.

Death…Buddhists believe, is not the end of life. It is the beginning of another journey whose path is designated by the way you have led your past life. I shelved the message somewhere at the back of my mind.

When the face of death is lined with years of life, people say, “it was time”. When the face of death has no trace of time, people say, “it was fate”. At such time, I came empty handed wherever I looked for a recess because somewhere along the way, I had lost the precious gift of faith.

There were always plenty of excuses in mundane significances. No efforts made at taking pause. The temples on the top of the hills were retreating. Personal connections made in a moment of prayer were lost. Values starting to get over-ridden with borrowed opinions. I started to look for refuge in the shelved message for something to desperately believe in. Anything that would give a semblance of reason to why a handsome young man…full of dreams, loving and loved…should stop living. Anything that would say that the dusts floating with the river down the valley would come back again. Anything but a full stop.

The wheel of life is a circle. Not a corridor. Where you are born inside the circle is determined by how you have lived. The circle has an exit into the abode of the enlightened. Till then, you live inside the loop, born and reborn. The tortoise had, in another time, turned away a person in need of shelter. A dead moth on a butter lamp had, in another time, indulged in gluttony. In essence, be a good human being.

And while this law of cause and effect cannot be proved in a test tube, it has given my mother the strength to deal with a parent’s ultimate test in endurance. A strength that can only be had by a person with faith to believe that life goes on after death. And that in another place, her son would be born again to bring as much happiness as he had brought us.

Then there is another beautiful belief that my mother holds on to, and that has brought her glimmer of solace.

It is believed that there exists a sphere for the ‘lesser’ Gods in the circle of rebirth. While these gods are blessed with happiness beyond what one experiences in the animal sphere, they have not attained enlightenment. In that way, they have not broken away from the cycle of life and death, but their accumulated karma assures them a happier place for a long, long time. The span of day and night in the sphere of these gods are believed to be counted in years. They lie awake for 25 years, and sleep for the same number of years.

Sometimes, while asleep, these gods come into animal sphere. It is a short dream. In that dream, they are born here, they grow up here, and they live to be 25. At 25, their time is up. They wake up to another life. A more beautiful life.

2004 is the year of the Wood Male Monkey. A handsome young man turned 25 on the Bhutanese New Year, 21st February. One and half months later, he woke up in the realm of the gods.

Faith in this belief is powerful enough to give strength to the grieving. My shelved message has for too long gathered dust because I was too busy going through life accumulating totally forgettable facts and figures.


(Tashi Pem works for HELVETAS in Thimphu. She is not only a very accomplished writer but also a well known singer. Her song " Hey Love" sung with Sonam Dorji is one of the favourites of many young people)

“ Does your meme go for kora?” grinned one of my colleagues as I arrived in my office.

“Yes, everyday, why?” I enquired though not very interested.

“ Don’t ask me why,” he retorted. “My meme has found a new abi for himself. I thought he always went for kora everyday but he was busy doing kora on top of new abi.” I laughed at his remarks. “ Don’t laugh. Just check what your meme is upto. He may be busy too?” he cautioned. Then he remarked with remorse, “ I have extra dead body to cremate now. One dead body collecting another,” and left the room. I smiled after him.

Every night after the dinner, I usually spent some time talking with my meme in his bedroom. That night I teased him. I told him that I heard he was trying to impress one old lady. He looked offended. He wanted to know who had told me about it. I lied to him that someone who goes for kora regularly had seen him going around with an old lady.

“I think he must have seen me go out to drink some wine at a shop near hospital with abi Tshomo Ama?” he tried to explain. I reminded him that he should not be drinking as it would affect his body pressure. He felt guilty about it and didn’t say anything. Instead he told me to go to my room and sleep.

However, as we talked about other things, he did mention about some of the old people having discreet relationship. Many old people came to Memorial Chorten everyday for many reasons. Some to pray and do kora and chag while others for many other reasons. It was an escape for many of them from children and spouses of their children who failed to understand them. They gathered at the mani dungjur and talked about everything under the sun. Some of them found new company, especially for those who lost their partners while many others, like my meme, it was an opportunity to wet his throat with some wine and be amused with the talk of people of his age and like.

The next day happened to be tshe chenga. As I returned home from my office in the evening, I decided to go to the chorten and pray and also do some kora. There were many people doing kora around the Chorten. As I finished my kora, I went looking for my Grandfather thinking that I would take him home with me. I knew that he would still be at the Chorten because during the auspicious days, he always came home late. I found him at one corner of the chorten outside talking to three other old people. As I called him, he looked at me with surprise and remarked, “From where did you appear?” I told him that it was Tshe Chenga and had come for some kora. I asked him if he was ready to go home and he said yes. All his friends wanted to go home too so I thought I will drop all of them home.

Along the way, they were busy talking about the things that happened during the day and all of them seemed to enjoy laughing about whatever that had happened. In between their conversation, I decided to tease them so I said, “old people seems to be getting partners easily than young people. I am young and not married yet but I think many of you have got new partners already?” As I said this, there was a deep uncomfortable silence. “ What happened? Everyone have stopped talking when I said about partners!” I enquired teasingly.

“Everyone desires to live long, yet not to be old. You will understand this when you grow old like us,” came a soft voice from the back.

“Young people will not understand this. My son’s wife thinks that I should eat what is given and not complain whether it is cooked well or not,” added another. “They don’t understand that hard cooked rice chokes us. For them we are fit to look after their children and be at home. When I sent my son to school, we didn’t have anything. My three other children worked hard so that this son of mine would not go hungry while at school or be ashamed of his poor family back home.” There was a long silence. I decided to treat all the old people to some beer. As we drank some beer, we were able to talk more freely.

As we drank, my meme tried to explain how he felt about being old. “ Growing old is inescapable. If we have to live long, we have to grow old but our difficulty is not about growing old but adjusting ourselves to the social rules wanting us to behave in terms of what society has defined as proper for our age—like looking after grandchildren and offering prayers.”

“Back in our village, people consult us first whenever they do something even if they have to decide otherwise. That gives us a feeling that we are at least a head of the family and that we are responsible for our family but I think we are now estranged,” muttered one of the old man as he gulped down some beer from his glass.

“But what about the new abi? Do you look for new abi to prove that you are still young?” I quizzed them. We all laughed.

“Old people tend to get lonely, especially after the death of their partner. We look at people of our age to fill in the place of our lost partner to give us company so that we are not lonely anymore,” clarified one of the old men. I thought it made sense to me. “When we are children we take what is given, in youth we search to make something of ourselves and in adulthood we were often compelled to take what some people think is good for us. When we are old, we are on our own like a lone tree on the side of the road,” he continued.

After I dropped the old people to their home, I returned and thought over it many times. I think there was ancient wisdom seeping down from the wrinkled faces of old people. I think it is a sign of impending degeneration of Society. We are not doing a good job if we just provide for their physical needs while ignoring their emotional and psychological needs.

Life at old age, as we all believe is not as easy as following doctor’s prescription. Every person is an individual, with his own sense of the values and of the fitness of things. Every person has to assess his own possibilities, set his own goal, and prepare himself to reach it, with happiness and enthusiasm.

Wamrong is one of the three Dungkhags (sub district) in eastern Bhutan covering two gewogs (blocks) of many hamlets, villages and people. Until recent past, it had three gewogs under its jurisdiction. However, when the political delimitation was carried out in 2007, it lost Nanong to Pema Gatshel Dzongkhag (District). Wamrong, as a main village still exist some 25 kilometers from the Wamrong Dungkhag.

How Wamrong came into existence is a story worth being written down before it is forgotten. Its history may evaporate along with the land itself. Today, Wamrong remains just a lunch stop for travelers to Trashigang and Gudama ( Samdrup Jongkhar). Due to excessive deforestations and loose soil, massive landslides occurred few years ago and washed away many land leaving people uncertain of the future. Bhutan Government, understanding the magnitude of the problem, resettled many farmers by giving some land to cultivate in Southern Bhutan. Those who continue to live in villages there survive on the perils of waking up dead or alive near the river. Monsoon is awaited with excitement and fear. Excitement, because they are depenedent upon rain to cultivate their farms and scared because the same monsoon which keeps their family alive with food supply would take their lives and their land.

The name Wamrong was derived from the word Wagom, which means beehive in Sharchop language. This places was famous in earlier days for the production of honeycombs. It is being said that an official called Kuenzang Dhendup who was sent to collect taxes happened to impregnate a woman in Khaling. The son, Dhendup, grew up to be a tall and very handsome young man. However, he did not see his father because the father had left for the capital to attend to his duty. Although people revered him as a son of a government official, he did not like the idea of being without a father. So he decided to leave Khaling and go somewhere and start his own village. After traveling for few days, he arrived at the present day Wamrong village which he found suitable because of abundant pasture for the cattle and warm climate. After he and few people settled down, other villagers from other part followed him and soon it was village. However, the other people had come for different reasons. They had come to escape heavy taxes that were being levied upon people those days in the form of cereals, clothes , wine and labour.

Dhendup however, did not want to risk being sent bangchen garpas to punish them for avoiding taxes. Bangchen garpas were officials who served the governors those days and they were infamous for their cruelty. So he collected taxes like honey, woven clothes, butter, cereal, crops, wine and other items being imposed and deposited it to Trashigang Dzongpon (the Governor of Trashigang). This form of taxation continued to be paid for four successive generations until his great grandchildren like Thinley, Sangay and Tshewang became grandparents themselves. Then the country had moved from barter to monetary economy. However, people preferred to exchange goods instead of paying cash because people did not have cash very often. The only time they saw money was when they traveled for a week or so to Gudama, the nearest border town and sold out oranges. With the money that they got, they brought back cotton yarns to weave clothes, mustard oil and salts. Those who went to Gudama were not allowed to enter home as soon as they arrived. They were required to live in barns near the house and avoid contacts with other people due to the fear of contacting Tshatpa or malaria being brought from the border. Those days, there were little known cure for Tshatpa and it was the most dreaded disease those days .Those who suffered Tshatpa risked the danger of being ostracized by the society and most died painful death. The same was the case for other epidemics like small pox and leprosy. Many people died in many villages but it is suspected that people must have died of ostracization more than the disease itself.

Few years later, the road from Samdrup Jongkhar to Trashigang.The road cut travel time to Trashigang and Samdrup Jongkhar to just a day from a week. People no longer bothered about the malaria and other disease because by then they had hospital a day walk from their home. Patients could at least go to hospital even though people needed to carry the patients on the back.

When the road was first built, people marveled at the huge trucks carrying the stones and sands. People waited by the roadside carrying eggs in their hands and showing it to the driver so that they could get a lift. The driver charged extra egg saying that the truck also ate eggs like the driver. School children didn’t have school nearby. They traveled to Trashigang Central School in Trashigang to get education. They carried their own stock of food and walked some eighty kilometers to get the new stock. Not all were rich to provide crushed corn flour to their children. So, many had to adjust their stomach to hunger. Shoes and stockings were extreme luxury. They used smoke soot for ink and read under the light of lentsong. Lentsong are pine wood resins which catches fire easily and burns bright. In fact, sending children to school was a burden for the parents because they didn’t have anyone to look after their cattle, fetch firewood and help cultivate land. So when people didn’t want to send their children to school, the officials went to each house and took the children to school. Some parents bribed the officials not to take their children to school.

After some years, those children who went to school got Government job and began to live in comparative luxury. When they went back to villages with their family wearing clean clothes, children in villages began to imagine freedom from ploughs, ox and axe. many regretted for not having gone to school. Many ran away from home and became drivers of lorry after many years of toiling. Instead of wearing clean clothes, most were wearing Mobil stained clothes. The faces and clothes were anything but clean. After sometime, they forgot what the color of the clothes were when it was first bought on the roadside shop. They spend most nights on the way and made their own living. Yet some send back some money and helped their parents and siblings.

Yet there were those who were left in the villages who were neither bold enough to find their own life outside the village nor were lucky enough to go to school. So they became followers of local priests. During the apprenticeship with priests, they learn to make some ritual cakes, read some prayers and make some offerings. They also learn to demand beer instead of home brewed wine and complain about the food and money offered by the host. When the ritual is completed, most are not able to carry their own body on their legs because of excessive consumption of wine.

Ritual and spiritual wellbeing play a very important role in many villages in Bhutan. However, death ritual is believed to be one of the most important rituals because people believe that the deceased need to transit to another life after death. Transition is not always swift because when people were living it is believed that many people have attachment to their wealth, family, friends or unfulfilled dreams and ambitions. Even though they are dead, the deceased do not accept and realize that they are dead. This is where the role of good practitioners and priests come into play. The practitioners and priests help the deceased realize that he or she has died within the time span of 49 days and that he/she needs to find a new body and thereby leave all attachments.If they fail to do that, the soul is known to go through endless suffering of predicaments which is known as bardo in buddhism.

However, many villagers have not been very lucky to get the services of good priests or practitioners who can call the deceased by names and then send the dead off to their next lives. Many were in fact sent to the world of predicaments where the souls roamed in pain in search of path. Having said this to you, it reminds me of the story that I heard when I went to my village sometimes in the end of March to vote. People talked of a widow named Tshering who had died few months before leaving behind seven children. However, only three of them were minors and had lived with her when she was alive. She had died of throat and stomach related disease.

After many months of her death, there was some gathering of villagers in one of the houses and during the gathering, Tshering possessed one of the women present there and demanded to know where her children had gone and requested people to bring them back to her. Her minor children had been taken away by their elder siblings after her death. When she was questioned, she is known to have expressed the pain she went through by living on cliffs, caves and trees. She was known to play flutes very well when she lived. The possessed lady imitated playing a flute.

There were many instances of such possessions being talked about by the villagers. If nothing is done, the village would soon be the village of souls wandering in anguish and pains.

The villages yearn for some good practitioners and monks to show them road when alive and dead. More than the people, the drinking gomchens (lay monks) need good teacher to show them that they have messed the death of many people. Death is as important a part of one’s life as life because it is the beginning of another life elsewhere. We need to reach the destiny and not be caught in the current of bankless river.