Winter Days

Wintery view from my House

This is a time. And not just any time—it is the time for ending.The flowers are withering.The brown leaves of trees are falling one by one, each one whispering, "I told you autumn was coming." There have been times of glory—growing, sprouting, and blooming. There were times when birds sang joyfully, hunting for fresh food like tiny feathered bandits. There have been times of rain and sunshine. There have been times… and now, this is the time when everything is coming to an end. The year is drawing to a close. 

Our exams are almost done. The product of a year's learning—sweat, tears, and a surprising amount of doodling—is nearly at its final result. Children are happy. Parents are happy about their smooth sailing throughout the year. (Or maybe just happy that the children are back home and not asking for pocket money.) Wish them so much luck ahead. They will need it when the report cards arrive.

The winter season in most parts of Bhutan is not exactly a time for celebration. Nobody is dancing in the streets. Nobody is singing about snowflakes. Instead, everybody is in a restive mood—the kind where you want to move but your blanket says no. The chilly northern winds bundle people into so many layers of clothing that we all look like walking onions. Moving becomes difficult. Walking to the kitchen feels like climbing Everest. Most people remain inside their homes, sitting around bhukharis and room heaters like penguins huddled for survival. Many are drinking warm ara or bangchang—not because they want to, but because the cold leaves them no choice. It's medicinal, really. And this is also the time to gather and talk. A whole lot of talking. About the year's work. About plans ahead. About whose cow wandered into whose potato field. About whether the government will finally fix that road. About everything and nothing. I wish them so much luck ahead. And also a thicker blanket.

Let us take a moment to appreciate the bhukhari. That humble, sooty, heat-spewing iron box is the true hero of Bhutanese winter. It asks for nothing but firewood. It gives everything—warmth, comfort, and the occasional burn on your shin when you sit too close. It doesn't judge you for wearing the same socks three days in a row. It doesn't complain about the smoke that fills the room. The bhukhari is loyal. We do not deserve the bhukhari. .

Bhukhari

Here at Darla, it's no better than any other place. In fact, it might be worse. The temperature drops to minus at this time of year. On top of that, it has been drizzling for so many days now. Not heavy rain. Not a storm. Just a slow, miserable, relentless drizzle that soaks into your bones and stays there. The winds cut through clothes and skin, turning bodies into icy iron statues. I half expect to see myself rusting. The good news—and there is good news—is that we will soon migrate to the lower, southern, warmer parts of Phuntsholing and Gelephu. Yes. Migration. Like birds. But with more luggage and less grace. Soon, we will feel the sun again. Soon, we will shed our onion layers. Soon, we will complain about the heat instead. And that is the circle of life in Bhutan.