The Crush

Think not and say:

Who were we before?
Assuming life with many pretensions—
this loneliness and longing kill slowly.

Going along with this assumed decorum,
this will and self-willedness—
fed up with these restraints of life.
Let's do away.
Live, and like.



The other day, friends told
the same, same story:
"To be what you are not—
as faltering, is this life?"
They don't falter at small restraints,
walk triumphant walks.
Live and have,
and have and live.



I told them: I've a crush on someone,
and as a natural tendency,
shower unnatural feelings.
They told me: think not, act more.
Was the help not in their hands?

Yes. I think more and act less.
That's how I have a mundane life.
All is false in love—
for there is nothing wrong with loving.
This freak makes me weak.
I'm afraid I'll crash my own life,
the quick and deep.



Oh, come on, dear—
life is the same series.
Act away from trivial-trifling matter,
keep us going
with sparks.

Everyone will have a crush on someone, and it’s certain to human feelings; to love and appreciate someone. The poem asks the lover to get away with the decorum or institutions of what is called identity, live unbounded from the societies, and do whatever a mind says. Sounds like Andrew Marvell’s poem, "To His Coy Mistress," to "seize the day" - to make the most of today and not put off action until tomorrow.

A Transitory Life

"Sometimes you are nobody in life, you have no money,

You are not successful, you are not pretty,

but you mean well and have a good heart.

People should pay more attention to people like that."  says Celine Dion.

Last time, on one of my trips, I had a feeling of the weird unnaturalness of this transitory world. There is nothing as "yesterdays" or "tomorrows"—as such, it's fleeting. We live to see shifting things around us. It's difficult to pass through so many kinds of lives, and to think about dying, parting, and leaving all these loving people and the world—only to become nothing.

Some images of life that ring hard within us (all photographs are from my photo albums except two from Google).

Sleep, for maniacs infatuate this world 

Poor man, rich heart. "Wealth and riches are illusory; show not over-fondness for them." A Buddhist saying. (Photo courtesy: Google)



Running into the midnight. "It is better to travel well than to arrive."Buddha.(photo courtesy: Google)

The nature of flower and our life is same: to stand in the rains or shines and then decay. Life is transitory, like the morning dewdrops on the grass; Be not idle, nor give time to worthless works, O Guru

"All worldly pursuits have but one unavoidable and inevitable end, which is sorrow; acquisitions end in dispersion; buildings in destruction; meetings in separation; births in death. Knowing this, one should, from the very first, renounce acquisitions and storing-up, and building, and meeting; and, faithful to the commands of an eminent Guru, set about realizing the Truth. That alone is the best of religious observances."-Milarepa

Ever transient is this world of ours; all things change and pass away; For a distant journey even now prepare. So, know emptiness, and be compassionate.

Chick

Reader's Restriction:
The humor below is intended only for a mature audience, as it contains some suggestive language. The writing does not necessarily blame any language or culture.




Born and brought up in eastern Bhutan, the only language I knew was Sharchokpa. But I always wanted to learn other people's tongues. And since Lhotsampa was quite the popular kid on the linguistic block, I was excited to pick it up.

In Class IV, luck finally smiled at me. Enter Bishnu Kafley—my Lhotsampa friend. We remained thick as thieves for many years, right up until we graduated Class VIII. After that, life happened, and we lost each other. But hope floats. One fine day, we shall meet again, and I will surprise him by speaking his own mother tongue. That's the dream.

Back in those days, I didn't know his language, and he didn't know mine. So what did we do? We spoke headless-legless English. You know the kind: "Come," "Go," "Eat," "Play"—all accompanied by dramatic body language that would put a mime artist to shame.


As the chick grew into a cock (pun absolutely intended), I graduated from the Samtse College of Education. By then, I could speak Lhotsampakha here and there—enough to order food and perhaps insult someone accidentally.

My first posting was in 2005 at Tsirangtoe Lower Secondary School, Tsirang. It was both fortunate and unfortunate. Fortunate, because I was finally in a place where the majority of the population were Lhotsampas—a live laboratory for language learning. Unfortunate, because I had to live in a remote, windy, damp place that made my bones ache and my socks perpetually wet.

Anyway, I was eager to learn their language. If not master it, at least grab a few words and semantic orders by the throat. Great!



My students always knocked me out—and they continue to do so, even in my sleep. Their beguiling faces, naughty-dirty expressions, and rough-murky behaviors have a way of waking me up at 3 AM for no good reason.

This particular incident happened in what was probably my third class of the third chapter. I had jumped two chapters ahead to start with the easiest topic: domestic animals. Being a geography teacher, I was, of course, teaching geography. But that day, we talked about animals. I asked my students to name a few. They did, one by one.

Then I decided to go a little further—animals and their young ones. (A teacher always adds something extra to the topic. It adds to the teacher's persona and showcases his high erudition, you see.)

"Cow-calf, pig-piglet, horse-foal, chicken-chick," I announced with academic pride.

The students burst into sudden, suspicious laughter.

"Chick," I repeated, sensing something was fishy.

The laughter continued, now with added snorts and elbow nudges.

"Chick!" I said again, playfully but louder.

By then, the giggles had spread like wildfire, and the girls began to bend their heads toward their desks as if searching for lost contact lenses.

"What's so funny about 'chick'? Do you know what 'chick' means?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"We know, sir," a faint voice shot up from the back.

"Sir, it's a dirty word," another student declared.

"What is it? I want to learn too," I said, innocence dripping from every syllable.

"Not in the class, sir," the class captain said firmly, as if guarding the gates of a national secret.


I pulled the captain aside after class.

"Sir," he said, shuffling his feet and looking at the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again, "it means… sleeping together… and having sex together, sir."

My jaw dropped. My eyebrows climbed into my hairline.

I had never imagined I would go that far. The word chick — innocent, feathery, barnyard chick — literally meant something else entirely in Lhotsampakha. Something that rhymes with duck. Something that should not be said in a classroom. Something that made me want to crawl under my desk and hibernate for a week.

I didn't go to that class for three days.

When I finally returned, I made a solemn promise to my students: "The word 'chick' is strictly banned from this classroom. Say 'baby chicken' or nothing at all."

From that day onward, my impatience to learn the Lhotsampa language waned considerably. Some lessons, after all, are learned the hard way — with red cheeks and a sudden urge to become a hermit.



Moral:

When learning a new language, always ask for the other meaning before opening your mouth. And never, ever teach domestic animals on a Monday.

The Trip

Yesterday, our class—along with three professors—visited three legendary temples in Belur, Halebeedu, and Shravanabelagola. The total journey was about 222 kilometers from Bangalore. It was a long ride, but worth every bump in the road.

These places house some of the most impressive historical temples I have ever seen. Every piece of art and architecture is carved from stone—massive boulders and the tiniest pebble-sized fragments alike—each revealing rich, intricate details. Thousands of different Indian inscriptions and motifs cover the surfaces like a stone encyclopedia no one can fully decode.

The monuments are nothing short of wonderful. They depict religious history, mosaic patterns, scenes of music and dance, and stories I could not stop staring at. The stone craftsmanship is so perfectly finished that it almost feels unreal.

I honestly doubt that any mere human mortal could have done this sculpturing. There is no question in my mind: gods and goddesses must have lent their hands. Another legend says that superpower kings erected these structures using resources and skills we have long forgotten. (I bought a travel guidebook to learn more—because my curiosity was bigger than my wallet.)

These temples were built around the 11th and 12th centuries, during the Indian Vedic periods. That is nearly a thousand years ago. And yet, here they stand—defying weather, war, and wear.

Every day, thousands of people visit these temples, both from within India and from every corner of the world. And after yesterday, I completely understand why.

I have taken several packs of photos of these museums and temples. Below are a few of them. After all, a picture speaks more than a thousand words—and my words are already tired from all that walking.

The view from the Shravanabelagola' s temple

Looks like Roman architecture-outside of the Shravanabelagola's temple

There are similar structures around

People moving up to see the inner sanctum

Stone monolithic stands rain or shine

Rock crafted statuettes

Inside the structures...

Statues stand high watching

Belur star-shaped temple

Monkeys like sculptors casted out of huge stones

Where are we to go now?

Rows of magnificent works 

Intricate stone edifices

Roman Colosseum building like

Belur busy temple

Towering temple in Belur

In between, we sneak out to see a dam nearby

This is Halebeedu, a small part of the temple 

There are many Buddha-like statues in all temples

Showing different motifs

Furious Lord

Depicting wars

I am the most handsome of all. Ha...ha...ha!!!

Singing Lords

And dancing Lords

Uh...ah...come on to the last photo

A kaleidoscope of Halebeedu's temple

And the last one isPhew...turn ur computer to see the magnificent colossal statue of Gommateshwar, which stands 58ft 8 inches and considered to be the world's largest monolithic stone statue. There are many stories attributed to this monolithic. You may Google it the easiest i think.

The Temple of Belur, Halebeedu, and Shravanabelagola are difficult to pronounce but very promising places to go. There are so many things to learn from those devoted pilgrimages and tourists, but not for a couple dating, supposedly…haha.

The, Long, and Other Dangerous Words

(Reader's Restriction: The humour below is intended only for a mature audience, as it contains suggestive language. The writing does not propagate or blame any language or culture—it merely laughs at the beautiful mess of cross-linguistic accidents.)

I was born into the complicated world of The and Long. Much as I have equipped myself with these phonetics over the years, I still find them devilishly difficult to pronounce. And sometimes I wonder: why on earth do these two words—sounding so painfully similar—have such wildly different meanings depending on which language you're standing in?

The and Long can contort faces. They can strike fear into the hearts of a certain group of people in Bhutan—especially us Sharchokpas. Whenever I have to use these innocent English words, I deploy them with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. A peculiar American the (with that soft, rolling thhhh) sounds very close to our brother's slang for a certain part of the male anatomy. And don't get me wrong—I love a distinct American accent. But before I utter these English words, I glance around nervously. Left. Right. Behind. If there are rowdies nearby, I swallow the word whole. Otherwise, we might end up in a long, uncomfortable "guff" talk about nothing in particular—using nothing but these accidental slangs.

I have developed some uneasy, neurotic hunches about using these two Bhutanese slangs in front of my students—especially my Sharchokpa students. (Though let's be honest: everyone knows these slangs now. Ngalops, Lhotsampas, the person next door—all of them.) The worst part? These hesitant, dangerous words often slip out unnoticed, aimed at the wrong people. But I teach in an English-speaking classroom. Surely I shouldn't be blamed for speaking English. Right? Right?

In one of my classes, the students had grown bored after a series of dull lectures. They asked me about my free time. "We have a long class, sir," they said. "We want to enjoy long now."

I froze. Were my students making fun of the word long? Or was this mockery directed at me for using it so often? "To enjoy the long?" I flashed a small, nervous smile and continued. "Thus, we will have a long break then."

"Yes, thus, thus," some naughty students chimed in. Then they twisted their mouths weirdly and pronounced the word thus as t(h)ues—at which point the girls buried their faces in their desks for an uncomfortably long time.

No problem. I was gently forced out of the classroom after exchanging some quick, guilty laughter with the mischievous boys.

For those who have not yet had the pleasure of this cultural revelation:

· Long and The (when spoken in a certain Sharchokpa-accented way) are highly derogatory terms for the male organ. Yes, that one.

· And thus—if mispronounced with a slight lisp or a misplaced tongue—can refer to the female organ.

So there I was, a geography teacher, accidentally turning a grammar lesson into an anatomy lesson. I don't recall that being in my job description.

These days, I try to substitute the word long with any number of synonyms: lengthy, extensive, elongated, prolonged, stretched-out-like-a-rubber-band. You name it, I've tried it. But for small children in school, long must remain long—just long. And the must remain the. Innocent. Pure. Uncontaminated. Like a freshly washed whiteboard.

But here's the tragedy: these two words are also among the most offensive utterances one can make in Bhutan when angry or utterly hopeless. So the same sound that a toddler uses to describe a snake can also start a fistfight. The same sound that a grandmother uses to say "the house" can also get you expelled from a family gathering.

The and long are among the most commonly used words in the English language. And I must use them every single day. God help me. God help my students. God help the poor soul who has to sit next to me during open mic night.

Take care, and… THE LONG goodbye. See you next time—preferably without any accidental slangs.

Who Cleans the Toilet in your School?

Besides teaching, the extent of a teacher’s work nowadays has reached… toilet cleaning. So often, I find myself asking: what exactly is a teacher’s real job? To teach? Or to scrub a commode? And don’t get me started on “wholesome education.” This so-called wholesome education has turned teachers’ lives into a special kind of hell. It has chopped us into bits and parts—like a human salad no one ordered.

Some may call toilet cleaning the dignity of labour. Fine. But the “model teacher” description has become as clichéd as a motivational poster in a staffroom. What do students really want at the end of the day? Good passing marks. No big deal! The real imparters of wholesome education—these jack-of-all-trades knowledge machines—are themselves deeply unwholesome. “Everyone cannot be whole, sir. Some must be parts,” said a naughty student in my class, turning my face blacker than a burnt chapati in front of everyone. I had just complained about his indiscipline. And you know what? He’s right. And that’s dangerous. To be a jack of all trades and master of none—that’s what our system teaches. No specific skill, just blunt poles that won’t jab into the soil. And teachers’ stories are no different these days. Teachers must not only teach, but also strip off their blazers and kick a football between wide posts—or onto students’ shins. Teachers must not only teach, but also dance like monkeys on command. Teachers must sing at the top of their lungs, loudly enough to demotivate any future playback singer in the room. Teachers must dig the ground to sow seeds of a fruit that may never grow. Teachers must be guide, parent, mentor, and the father of all—though they have fathered none.

Toilet cleaning is the new trend at Darla MSS. Darla is the father of toilet cleaning—if other schools follow suit. And where the hell is Darla? Darla was once Tala. Tala is now a money-grinding machine in Bhutan. Hydroelectricity checks the trade balance, especially with India. Somewhere downstream, the lights are on; upstream, we’re holding toilet brushes.

In 2010, out came the teachers’ toilet-cleaning routine. To everyone’s surprise—and I mean genuine, jaw-dropping surprise—it was unexpected. Some laughed at the foolishness. Some made jokes. Some simply refused to use the toilet they had to clean. So many odds and ends came out. It pushed us into a day with a very stressed mind.

Those thoughtless Chamchas groups did whatever they were told. The other half questioned whether it was good or bad. But an order from the head? Many submitted into silence, nodding like broken toys. The Head is the progenitor of all. He is considered omniscient—an all-knowing type of charlatan. Bow before the flush.

Yes, dignity of labour is important. And the basic of all basics is cleaning the toilet. A grand routine was displayed: two lady teachers and two gent teachers, every morning and evening. To make matters worse, there were hues and cries among students. On one of my morning SUPW duties, I clearly heard a student say resentfully, “It best suits teachers—especially that discipline Lopen [name withheld]—to clean the shit.” I pretended not to hear. My soul, however, heard everything.

The real reason we had to clean toilets? No wet sweeper in the school. And the Dzongkhag wasn’t willing to provide one, despite so many unemployed scamps roaming around. Our dry sweeper loved only dry work. But the boys? The boys were wet.

Nobody took it seriously for more than two or three months. I suspect nobody bothered to clean the toilet except a few paranoids. Within this period, the matter worsened. Instead of cleaning the shit, a huge heap of shit was purposely messed near the door of the toilet and on either side of the pots. Intentional. This matter reached the mastermind. Soon, there was a three-hour meeting. On shit. It was the shit meeting—to vomit some hard, undisclosed, and hidden words. Disagreement, agreement, etc. Finally, the big solution: one evaluation criterion would be toilet cleaning. Understood? People must be forced in this democratic country sometimes. “This school is really becoming shit,” concluded our Lopen, who keeps his senses only through high alcohol. The end of a meeting is always welcome. Many times, I wish for a meeting to end before it starts. But beware—not with this life’s ending.

The story of cleaning toilets became quite successful—thanks to the fear of losing PCS marks. The cleaner of the day would wake up early, reach before anyone else, flush the toilet, sweep the passageways, and deodorize like a hotel housekeeper possessed. At closing time, the same routine. Many did. Many didn’t. And now I feel sorry that I malingered and absconded from this civilized work for some days. So, I half-sort-of promise: when I join back, I will be the first one to go inside the toilet… and the first one to come out.

Haha.

Relish with Dishes

Tawa, Bamya, Dolma, etc. What are these? If you know your way around multi-cuisines, you might recognize them as some Iraqi dishes—just like we Bhutanese have Ama Dhatse, Kewa Dhatse, Shakam, and the glorious army of cheesy, spicy goodness.

They have their own typical ways of preparing food. The rice is fried first, then mixed with lots of oil and just a little water—so steamed food is a rare guest at the table. The curry, on the other hand, drowns in tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes in Tawa and friends, much like we Bhutanese drown everything in chilies. A hike in tomato prices won't stop them, just like we can't stop at one chili. The tomatoes are chopped into the tiniest pieces imaginable, joined by cucumber, carrot, and other poor vegetables that didn’t see it coming. The curry tastes sweet-salty—but surprisingly, delectable. The only catch? The whole cooking process takes nearly four hours. Yes, four. You could watch two Bollywood movies and still wait for lunch.

“The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it up.” My friend Hashim (bless his patient soul) keeps repeating this quote from Arnold Glasgow, the American humorist. True. Though I’ve secretly wanted to smash an egg or two when hungry.

I told Hashim about our Bhutanese food. I even made him taste a chili—just one. His stomach went on a rampage for the entire night. He damned me to be reborn as a chili. That’s another story. Sometimes I call him Tawa, and I suppose that makes me an Ama Dhatse kind of guy.

I’ve fine-tuned myself to his cooking. What I like to call “use to”. One big reason: I have very little work when he cooks. Most of the time, I just help peel a few vegetables and wash them. The rest? He does everything. My job is to reach the dining table, eat whatever has been prepared, and carry the plate to the sink. But honestly, he does most of that too. I suspect he enjoys feeling superior.

I eat and eat—but slowly. I learned this technique back in my boarding school days: eat slowly! Let others charge ahead like starving wolves. I would wait patiently while they finished, aiming for that glorious second serving. And many times, it worked. When the mess in charge announced a second round, my technique paid off like a fixed deposit. Now I use the same strategy with Hashim. “Take it, take it,” he says, shoving more food my way. Lol.

This technique has now become a habit. Even at parties or gatherings, I’m always the last one to reach the food. Slow but steady—and lots and lots of it. But as an adult, I feel this might not be a good thing. Last and more, sometimes last and none. In school, even if there was none left, our mess would prepare something special—butter, fried food, etc. Good that we waited.

So here’s my question to you: did anyone else have a technique like mine? To be last in eating… and first in eating? Or am I just a slow, hungry paradox?