My House

My house in my village in Pemagatshel is nearly 60 years old. That's ancient in human years, but in house years, it's still flexing. It stands alone near a forest in Labar, like a retired warrior who doesn't need anyone's approval. This is where my parents currently live, and where all of us were brought up—running around, falling off stairs, and probably driving everyone crazy.

It's a large, three-storied house built of stone, wood, and mud. No iron pillars. No modern engineering. Just pure, stubborn Bhutanese craftsmanship. It has withstood all kinds of natural calamities—earthquakes, storms, and the soil erosion that occurred right beside it. Many times, the erosion threatened to eat away the land next to our house like a hungry ghost. But after building layered walls and planting trees, that same spot has now become a point of pride and conversation. ("Remember when we almost lost the backyard? Good times.")

My father said the house was struck by earthquakes several times—and not the gentle, "did you feel that?" kind. Yet not a single stone fell. The house remains just as it was, unlike my knees, which started complaining in their thirties.

I love my house, and I often wonder how my parents managed to build something so huge and so strong. It must have been incredibly hard work for them during the 1960s—a time when "heavy machinery" meant a strong back and a lot of Arra. I was told that my father brought carpenters and workers from Assam. I believe the design was his own, because it looks like one of the finest examples of a traditional Bhutanese house. No blueprints. No architect. Just vision, sweat, and probably some creative yelling.

Because of this house, my father was known as the wealthiest person in our Gewog. He is still well-known to many across the Dzongkhag. Never mind that "wealth" back then meant wood, stone, and a roof that didn't leak. He owned it. Literally.

Now, looking back at this house, I feel immense pride and respect. This was—and still is—my home. My temporary home. Just like my late brother Sonam, who left this house, I too must eventually leave… for my permanent home. But where? That's the question nobody can answer, and the silence is too sad.

So for now, I'll keep clicking photos with my mobile and pretending the house will outlive us all. Because honestly? It probably will.

Here are some photos of my house which I clicked last time. Please ignore my photography skill.

Front view

Side view