The Dead Days

Except for a few short travels, I have been on a long break from this mundane world. Unlike before, this break has not been as mundane as it might have been. And even now, I still have time to enjoy it—time to drink life to the lees. Until now, I have done nothing productive. I simply wanted to see how life passes without doing anything, and life did pass. I had no big thoughts, dreams, works, or projects on my mind. My mind was simply empty, and I wanted to keep it as empty as a newborn child's. So I slept, ate, drove, watched television, talked, drank, and did nothing. Useless as it may seem, and indeed it was. The truth is, there is nothing as meaningful as we like to believe. Everything is as useless as stale food. Time passes. Life moves on toward decay. Nothing truly exists.

The weather outside was very cold, though not so inclement. From time to time, I went outside to watch the snow-capped mountains and take photographs. It was beautiful. But the nip in the air forced me to roll myself up inside blankets or sit near the bukhari (Bhutanese heater or fire) all day. Winter is cruel, and rightly so. My son and I had to fight to keep ourselves warm. Most of the time, he would be fully engaged playing games on the computer. My wife got her exercise through kitchen chores, and I assisted her as much as I could. When she felt cold, she would bundle herself up in several layers of clothing—around seven or eight shirts and a jacket at this time of year.

There is a kitchen garden near our kitchen. It holds a few vegetables, mostly radishes, broccoli, leafy greens (sags), large turnips, and coriander. Everything is so natural. In this artificial world, we now love nature—everything that comes from nature. That is what we truly care about. I dug the garden and even extended it. But even after extending, our garden grew to no more than the size of a spacious bathroom. We sowed seeds—maize, beans, cucumber, potatoes, and others—for the coming months. We hope for a bountiful harvest from this red soil. Yes, the soil was as red as a rose, and we needed to spread dung as thick as a fingernail to enrich it. So we gathered different kinds of dung—cow, chicken, and horse—all in the hope of a plentiful harvest. Now, let us wait and see. Hope remains.