I am not an economist, nor do I understand my own country's monetary system. I can count cash, but a financial crisis or crunch is new to me. My economics teacher taught me that when supply and demand don't match, inflation or deflation occurs. I believe this holds true in every aspect of life. When boys outnumber girls, girls are in high demand. Similarly, when production doesn't align with market value, inflation follows.
So now, what the hell is happening with the Indian rupee (IC) and the Bhutanese ngultrum (BC)? In border towns like Jaigaon and Samdrupjongkhar, the rupee has become scarcer than a kidney for a patient waiting for a donor. On the other hand, the ngultrum is just stacks of paper piling up in merchants' hands.
To witness this crisis firsthand, I walked downtown to see its cause and effect. I stopped at a shirt shop to buy one. I intentionally wanted to shock the shopkeeper by pulling out a bundle of ngultrum notes. After we agreed on a price of Nu. 250, I took out BC notes. The salesperson's sudden, crafty look told me everything. He refused outright, saying he wouldn’t accept BC and demanded IC instead. If I had to pay in BC, he said, I'd have to pay 300—50 extra. Then he leaned in and whispered that if I brought 1 lakh in IC, he'd exchange it and give me an extra 10,000 BC.
I started wondering if the barter system was creeping back. If so, paper cash was becoming useless—it held no real value. I vaguely agreed that I would "try," though I knew that trying would lead nowhere. Recently, a policeman was caught red-handed exchanging IC for BC at a higher rate. That officer was nabbed by the shamus. It makes me think: when it comes to money, the law upholder is often the first to become the lawbreaker. I laughed at the irony.
I've heard that Bhutanese people are doing big business out of this crisis. I remember my father saying, "When one bull falls, another rises." My brother, who is a banker, told me that we Bhutanese are real bulls when it comes to doing business that could seriously harm our own country. I didn't understand him—I'm thick-headed about these matters.
Anyway, the trade or exchange value in border towns is currently 100 IC for 120 BC, and it may rise further. The value of the crown's head is losing to the lion's head. Meanwhile, the government pays 5 percent on GoI facilities and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facilities.
I later dropped in on an old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments. I hadn't visited him in three years—back then, I bought seven different garments in one go, enough to last over two years. That purchase made him so happy it turned into a sort of "underwear friendship." Now, I realize: was I really being economical, spending so much on small items all at once? It was like buying two cars when you only need one.
He greeted me warmly, then immediately fired questions at me about the rupee crisis. "Who am I to control anything?" I asked myself. I told him the government was discussing it and that it would be resolved soon. After some blabbering, he warned me in a friendly way that Bhutanese people are great spendthrifts—we spend without saving. I asked how much money he gets daily from Bhutanese customers. His answer astonished me: ten thousand or more every day. His is a small shop. If even he gets that much, what must others be getting?
Bhutan exports little to nothing but imports a great deal—90 percent from India. Money flows out, and border areas are flooded with ngultrums. He told me the same story: he needs IC to keep his business rolling. Like other merchants, he said in the name of friendship he'd give me a better exchange rate than others would. I replied, "I'll try"—a safe answer that wouldn't hurt his feelings.
So now, what the hell is happening with the Indian rupee (IC) and the Bhutanese ngultrum (BC)? In border towns like Jaigaon and Samdrupjongkhar, the rupee has become scarcer than a kidney for a patient waiting for a donor. On the other hand, the ngultrum is just stacks of paper piling up in merchants' hands.
To witness this crisis firsthand, I walked downtown to see its cause and effect. I stopped at a shirt shop to buy one. I intentionally wanted to shock the shopkeeper by pulling out a bundle of ngultrum notes. After we agreed on a price of Nu. 250, I took out BC notes. The salesperson's sudden, crafty look told me everything. He refused outright, saying he wouldn’t accept BC and demanded IC instead. If I had to pay in BC, he said, I'd have to pay 300—50 extra. Then he leaned in and whispered that if I brought 1 lakh in IC, he'd exchange it and give me an extra 10,000 BC.
I started wondering if the barter system was creeping back. If so, paper cash was becoming useless—it held no real value. I vaguely agreed that I would "try," though I knew that trying would lead nowhere. Recently, a policeman was caught red-handed exchanging IC for BC at a higher rate. That officer was nabbed by the shamus. It makes me think: when it comes to money, the law upholder is often the first to become the lawbreaker. I laughed at the irony.
I've heard that Bhutanese people are doing big business out of this crisis. I remember my father saying, "When one bull falls, another rises." My brother, who is a banker, told me that we Bhutanese are real bulls when it comes to doing business that could seriously harm our own country. I didn't understand him—I'm thick-headed about these matters.
Anyway, the trade or exchange value in border towns is currently 100 IC for 120 BC, and it may rise further. The value of the crown's head is losing to the lion's head. Meanwhile, the government pays 5 percent on GoI facilities and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facilities.
I later dropped in on an old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments. I hadn't visited him in three years—back then, I bought seven different garments in one go, enough to last over two years. That purchase made him so happy it turned into a sort of "underwear friendship." Now, I realize: was I really being economical, spending so much on small items all at once? It was like buying two cars when you only need one.
He greeted me warmly, then immediately fired questions at me about the rupee crisis. "Who am I to control anything?" I asked myself. I told him the government was discussing it and that it would be resolved soon. After some blabbering, he warned me in a friendly way that Bhutanese people are great spendthrifts—we spend without saving. I asked how much money he gets daily from Bhutanese customers. His answer astonished me: ten thousand or more every day. His is a small shop. If even he gets that much, what must others be getting?
Bhutan exports little to nothing but imports a great deal—90 percent from India. Money flows out, and border areas are flooded with ngultrums. He told me the same story: he needs IC to keep his business rolling. Like other merchants, he said in the name of friendship he'd give me a better exchange rate than others would. I replied, "I'll try"—a safe answer that wouldn't hurt his feelings.
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