Bhutan Literature

(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)