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.