Phuntsholing in Winter

Winter is not really winter in a place called Phuntsholing. I mean, you won’t be freezing or frolicking in snow. Instead, you’ll be sweating in traffic. It remains one of the busiest places, and commerce thrives during this time of the year. People from the highlands move down to the lowland south in winter—like birds, but with more luggage and fewer wings.

Southern towns like Phuntsholing, Gelephu, Samdrup Jongkhar, and Samtse see their populations multiply overnight. During summer, the opposite happens—the damp heat of the southern belt pushes most people back upward, as if the towns themselves are exhaling.

Phuntsholing receives the highest number of people during winter. People come from all over Bhutan for numerous reasons. Some come to bask in the warm winter sun. Most come for trade—to sell oranges, potatoes, and other goods. Others come to shop for school children, to visit, or to attend a religious ceremony. Consequently, Phuntsholing becomes crowded, dusty, and at times dangerous. A man was badly beaten up last night for no apparent reason. The reason? Probably someone took the last parking spot.

The religious ceremony conducted by His Holiness Namkhai Nyingpo Rinpoche draws a huge number of people from all over the world, including India (Sikkim), Nepal, and elsewhere. It’s a spiritual gathering with earthly crowds.

Everything is good in Phuntsholing except for money and places to stay. Every household receives numerous guests: children, parents, relatives, friends, and friends of friends—and friends of friends of friends who somehow know your aunt. The house where I am staying currently has ten guests, and at times the number rises to twenty. Twenty! That’s not a house. That’s a hotel without a reception desk.

What a crowd to attend to! It looks like a Lochey (a religious ceremony held at home)—except nobody invited half these people. The most challenging times in such a house are sleeping and eating. Meals are not prepared by a single cook but by several. Kilograms and kilograms of rice are boiled in three large rice cookers. You haven’t known fear until you’ve seen three rice cookers hissing at you simultaneously.

At bedtime, bodies lie scattered on the floor like corpses—some even without mattresses or blankets. You step over legs, arms, and the occasional snoring uncle. It is such an uncomfortable home to be in. Everyone behaves their best to impress the host. Smiles are frozen. Burps are suppressed. My cousin, our host, is good. He doesn't change. He remains the same throughout: simple and straightforward. While the rest of us are performing, he’s just being himself. Annoying, isn’t it?

Now, when I talk about change, I always think of it in a slightly strange way. People change. A few people change a great deal. There was once a loudmouthed non-performer who impressed higher bosses with his lip service. A real talker. A doer of nothing. He was a good friend—same grade, same kind of standard. But when he became the boss, the world turned upside down. Besides becoming a boss and changing his attitude, he changed his attitude toward others. He forgot his friend. He never talked. He never helped. He was useless to his friend. What kind of change is that? That’s not promotion. That’s personality deletion.

I tell people—especially my students, and whenever I have the chance to speak on occasions—that they must not change in certain ways. You can change. Your ideas must change. Your living standard must change. Your attitude will change. But you must never change your heart. I tell them to be good. Goodness is the basis of everything. Do good, be good, and good things will come back to you.

And also, if you have a mattress and a blanket, please share. Because in Phuntsholing in winter, the only thing colder than the weather is the floor at 2 AM.