Human Values Workshop

Darla School staff attended a Human Values Workshop in Gedu for three days, beginning August 13th to 15th. I am reproducing some of the important topics the workshop covered during this period—partly for posterity, partly because I paid attention and now you all have to suffer.

During the feedback session, everyone said how changed they were at the end of the workshop. Apparently, three days in Gedu can undo a lifetime of bad habits. Who knew? In the beginning, the content felt quite similar to our eight-fold paths—and it actually was derived from there. So essentially, we paid for a refresher course on things we already believed in. But let's not be cynical. Yet.

The session started with this proposal—an ambiguous one, designed to make your brain tilt slightly:

"Whatever is said is a Proposal. Do not assume it to be true or false. Verify it on your own right—on the basis of your natural acceptance."

In other words: don't believe us. But also don't disbelieve us. Just… feel it. Naturally.

The workshop also defined the role of education with great seriousness:

"The role of education is to facilitate the development of the competence to live with Definite Human Conduct."

Not just any conduct. Definite conduct. No vagueness allowed. We're here to produce decent human beings, not wishy-washy ones.

According to the workshop, transformation equals development. Yes, same thing. No difference. Change a little, develop a lot. Here is the diagrammatic summary of human values—because nothing says "spiritual growth" like a flowchart.

Transformation = Development

Right Understanding is all we need

And Preconditioning leads to many undesirable activities

 

The self and body...i like this part the most. Everything submerges in the space. Where does the self go from the space? 

Being Bad Boys

Boys are boys. Girls are girls. Nicely said.

Boys will remain boys—whether in Bhutan, India, Arab countries, Africa, or any community they belong to. There are no bars, no religions, no borders when it comes to their actions. They are, to put it kindly, damned bad birds.

They sleep all day and enjoy all night. They talk about sex—only sex, please, no love, no affection, no “how was your day?” They watch ridiculous movies. They play loud music. They never go to class. They never wash dishes. I suspect they believe dishes wash themselves by the sheer force of their indifference.

Very recently, a group of boys rented the upper floor flat. Four boys, one three-bedroom hall kitchen. Their behavior? Exactly the same script: loud music, zero hygiene, and sometimes—just for creativity—they throw buckets of water down the staircases. Crazy.

Those boys are complete maniacs. Because of them, I’ve started to think boys are a different species. They have no such thing as forbearance. They are sometimes like animals. In fact, they possess all the qualities of donkeys, monkeys, horses, and pigs—though I admit, that might be an insult to donkeys.

In my class, there was one very mannered, up-to-date, perfectly well-disciplined boy—more studious than even me (yes, even me). But as time passed, he changed. We told him he behaved like a girl, and now? He has become crazier than any of his classmates. He bunks class, sleeps in class, fights with teachers. He has simply become hopeless and mannerless. I feel he simply has no future. Congratulations to us—we successfully peer-pressured him into chaos.

In a distant land, there was a king. He wanted to discover where language comes from. He worked for many, many years. The crazy king asked all his ministers to research it. Finally, he concluded and laughed, declaring, "Language comes from society."

So, language is society-made. But boys, I guess, are not made by society. They are born tough and crazy by nature. The opposite of boys is girls. But mind you, some girls are not that opposite. They are equally crazy, or quite a lot more, than boys. Despite this, I do not have much knowledge of the duck's world. We live in the drake's world. (Look it up. I’ll wait.)

I have encountered many boys from different religious groups. On the surface, these boys appear religiously inclined—pious, proper, forbidden-fruit-avoiding types. But they do not. They say one thing and do the opposite right away. For example, Muslims are bound by a strict set of beliefs that forbid any form of adultery. Yet—well, you can guess. I have seen them drink, make girlfriends, sleep like pigs, and hardly ever pray. Why? Because they are boys.

Same story, different holy book.

As for me, I am a middle person—a kind of GNH follower. Not fanatical about everything, nor completely indifferent. I am on my way, doing all I can to assimilate and conform in life.

That is me.

(And no, I do not throw water down staircases. I have some standards.)

The Three Cunning Men

A humorous short story told by my mother when I was a kid I think many of us have heard this tale before. Though it is quite popular, I have never seen a written record of it in any language. So here, I have briefly and roughly reproduced it from memory. But let me now tell it properly, the way my mother told it to me.

Once upon a time, in a small village nestled between rolling hills, there lived three men. They were not handsome men. They were not strong men. In fact, each had a peculiar flaw—but none of them was willing to admit it.

The first was called Threadlike Neck. His throat was so slender and delicate that swallowing a grape was an adventure. The second was named Scrawny Chest. His rib cage was so fragile that a hearty sneeze could trouble him for days. The third was known as Lanky Leg. His limbs were long, thin, and brittle—like dried twigs pretending to be tree branches.

One sunny morning, these three decided to go on a picnic. They met in secret behind a banyan tree, whispering like conspirators. "Listen," said Threadlike Neck, his voice a thin whistle. "No one must know about our plan. If others come, they will eat our share." "Agreed," said Scrawny Chest, puffing out his hollow chest. "This shall remain among us three." "Absolutely," added Lanky Leg, shifting his weight carefully from one foot to the other. "Not a word to anyone." And so they swore a solemn oath of secrecy.

“The next morning, while the village still slept, the three men slipped out like shadows. Carrying a large basket filled with rice, spiced meat, fresh vegetables, and pickles, they marched into the deep forest. They walked for an hour, then another, until they found the perfect spot—a clearing beside a bubbling stream, shaded by a mighty fig tree. Birds sang overhead. Butterflies danced among wildflowers. "This is the place," declared Threadlike Neck, setting down the basket with a grunt. They gathered firewood, lit a small flame, and began to cook. Soon, the aroma of simmering meat and fragrant rice filled the air. The men's mouths watered. Their stomachs growled. Lunch was almost ready. And it looked positively luscious. ” Each man eyed the food greedily. Each wanted to be the first to taste it. But none wanted to appear too eager. Finally, Threadlike Neck cleared his throat—carefully, always carefully—and spoke. "Let me check if the salt is all right," he said, as if doing everyone a great favor. Before anyone could object, he plunged his hand into the pot and fished out a large, juicy portion of meat. He lifted it to his lips. His friends watched with envy. But Threadlike Neck was in such a hurry that he did not notice—the meat contained a small, sharp bone. He gulped. The bone shot down his throat and lodged there, tight as a cork in a bottle. "Gkkk—" he gasped, clutching his neck. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple. His threadlike neck, true to its name, could not pass the bone. Within moments, the poor fool collapsed onto the forest floor. Dead.

Scrawny Chest looked at his fallen companion. For a moment, sadness flickered across his face. But then he glanced at the pot of food, still steaming and delicious, and his sorrow evaporated like morning dew. “"Well," he said cheerfully to Lanky Leg, "now there are only two of us to eat this tasty quantity. More for you and me!" He was so pleased with this realization that he decided to celebrate. He slapped his hand hard and fast against his own chest—thwack!—the way a triumphant warrior might beat his breast. But Scrawny Chest had forgotten something important. His ribs were scrawny. Fragile. Brittle as old twigs. ” At the force of his own slap, his ribs splintered like glass. A sharp crack echoed through the forest. Scrawny Chest gasped, staggered, and fell beside his friend. Within moments, he too lay still. Dead.

Lanky Leg stood alone in the clearing. Two bodies on the ground. A pot full of delicious food. And no one left to share it with. His eyes widened. His lips curled into a smile. Then a grin. Then a wide, wicked laugh. "Me?" he whispered. "Only me? All of this… just for me?" “Happiness knew no bounds. He threw his arms into the air and began to dance—a wild, victorious jig around the fire. "Me, only me!" he shouted, leaping higher and higher. "I am the luckiest man alive!" He pranced. He twirled. He kicked up leaves and dust. But Lanky Leg had forgotten something too.” His legs were lanky. Thin. Weak. Not made for dancing, and certainly not made for boasting.’On his seventh triumphant jump, his left leg buckled. Then his right. There was a sound like dry branches snapping—crack, crack—and Lanky Leg crashed to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. The pain was terrible. The shame was worse. And so, with the scent of spiced meat still in his nose and no one to hear his final cry, Lanky Leg died.

And thus, the story of the three cunning men's picnic came to an end. The food they had so selfishly guarded was left untouched by human hands. But not for long.’Soon, the birds of the forest arrived—crows and mynas and bulbuls. Then came the squirrels, the wild boars, and even a shy forest fox. They ate every last grain of rice and every shred of meat. Nothing went to waste. Only the three foolish men wasted themselves.

My mother would always pause here, looking at me with kind but serious eyes, before delivering the moral: "Bragging, envy, and meanness are the garbage of foolish people." She would then add, softly: "A meal shared is a meal enjoyed. A secret hoarded is a poison swallowed alone. Do not be like the three cunning men. Do not let your own flaws become your undoing."

Another Lesson (from me to you) Looking back, I think the story teaches us even more: · Greed disguises itself as cleverness. Each man thought he was being smart. Each was merely being greedy. · Celebration without caution is dangerous. Scrawny Chest and Lanky Leg died not from others' actions, but from their own. · Secrets kept for selfish reasons often end badly. There was no need to hide the picnic. Had they invited the village, they might have lived to share the meal—and the joy. But then again, if they had been wise, there would be no story to tell. And that would be a shame, because my mother's stories were the best kind—funny, sad, and unforgettable, all at once.

 

Uniforms to Help Financial Crunch

In this so-called financial crunch or crisis, one must be ever careful with cash transactions. Money has become tight. One must know what to buy. The burning desires for material things have been tempered by economic inflation. With no salary increase and government budgets being slashed across developmental activities, money has become genuinely hard to come by.

The real problem is the rupee shortage against our ngultrum. Government reports paint a scary picture, suggesting it may take five or more years to recover from this financial crunch. Millions in debt remain to be cleared. Meanwhile, millions of our currency notes are floating in border towns, now useless. I was told by a storekeeper in Jaigaon that these notes are being eaten by rats inside their cupboards. That's it. I don't really understand the full picture. Now the cost of everything has skyrocketed. Yet, on the other hand, millions of rupees are earned every day from power exports. It is difficult to comprehend our economic situation.

At this juncture, some schools in Bhutan have come up with a good idea to help themselves and to teach people how terribly wasteful it is to spend money across the border—buying more than we need. Teacher uniforms, for instance, have become widely popular in schools. Darla MSS is a living example: teachers have adopted a dress code during working hours. Excellent! This helps not only individually but also financially. It helps one's family, society, and the government. The help may be just the tip of an iceberg, but it still makes a difference.

Our lady workers have kiras competing anywhere. They tend to buy very expensive kiras and tegos almost every month to show off to their friends. This is costly. To curb this trend and to reduce the accumulation of many useless kiras in favor of one useful dress, I think the uniform is a good idea. But of course, there are again personal rights—freedom to choose, freedom to wear—but that is another side of the coin.

Our male workers are done with five or six ghos in a year; they don't need to dress extravagantly. They already have dresses. Their ash-white, ash-black, or blue ghos are sufficient. There is one Lopen in Darla who always wears an ash-white gho the whole year round. That is too much on one extreme. On the other extreme, there was a southern Bhutanese math teacher (my fellow countryman) at Jigme Sherubling HS in Khaling who had just one ash-white gho for two years. I stayed there for only two years, and I didn't expect him to continue with that single gho alone. But I was truly struck when I saw the school magazine of one of the schools (name withheld). There he was, seated in the middle with his old ash-white gho—that man has become a principal! He is a calculating man, I guess. He really understands plus and minus.

Now, feeling somewhat hyped, I counted my own ghos. I breathed a sigh of relief. I have not been a real jerk when it comes to ghos. Within eight years of earning, I have sixteen ghos stuffed inside my cupboard shelf. They barely fill the whole step of shelf number one. Not so much, I thought. I have also given many old ghos to my people. I remember clearly that I have given away almost seven or more by now. I am not a gho freak. I have only two very expensive ghos: one Lungserma given by my parents, and a Sershog gho that my wife forcefully bought for me. These two expensive ghos are staved and bedded inside a suitcase. I hope they won't lay eggs and double. The last time my wife looked at them, there were some bugs creeping in between. Soon, they will make a home out of my precious but useless ghos.

Like all men, my favorite ghos are plain ash-blue and ash-white ones made across the border. I have five or more ghos in these colors, and I am afraid that some people may feel I have learned from my math teacher in Khaling.

Happiness is the Gift of Life

We celebrated International Happiness Day on March 20th. To mark the occasion, my mother told me a very short story. I have written it down here.

In an urban center—let's say Thimphu—there lived two boys. One came from a rich family, and the other from a poor family. The one thing they shared was an undying friendship. They were true friends.

The rich boy had everything: a large house, fine clothes, plenty of food, and the latest gadgets. The poor boy had almost nothing—except his kind parents, two loving brothers, and a small, simple home. The rich boy also had parents and three brothers, but something was missing.

One day, the poor boy visited the rich boy's house. He had heard so much about it but had never been inside. When he entered, he was surprised. The house was big and full of things, but it was not a happy place.

The rich boy's eldest brother sat in a corner, glued to his computer, playing games. He did not look up or say hello. The mother was playing card games with a group of men, laughing loudly but not warmly. Two younger children were fighting over a toy, shouting and pulling at each other. The father was arguing with the mother in the next room. Their voices were sharp and angry.

The house was messy. Clothes lay on the floor. Dishes were piled in the sink. No one greeted the poor boy or asked him to sit down. No one offered him tea or even a smile. He stood there for a while, feeling invisible and uncomfortable.

After some time, he quietly left and walked back to his own home.

As he walked, his heart felt heavy. He had seen something that troubled him deeply. He had always thought that having more things meant being happier. But now he was not so sure.

When he reached his own small house, the door was open. His mother was stirring a pot over the fire, humming a song. His father was mending a broken chair and smiling. His two brothers were sweeping the floor together, laughing about something silly. The house was small, but it was clean. The walls were plain, but they felt warm.

"Come, son, sit with us," his mother said. "Supper is almost ready."

They ate together—just a simple meal of rice and vegetables—but they shared it from one plate, talking and laughing. No one was fighting. No one was ignoring anyone. There was care in every word and love in every look.

That night, the poor boy understood something important. His family had no money, no big house, no fancy things. But they had something far greater: happiness. It was a gift, given by life or by God, and it cost nothing at all.

He realized then that happiness does not come from what you own. It comes from how you live, how you love, and how you treat the people around you. There is nothing better in life than true happiness—and unlike money or possessions, it is something no one can ever take away.

Kidnapping is a Huge Business in Sarpang

No wonder everything happens for money. One would sell one's father, mother, brother, sister—anyone—for money. One would kill, murder, and transform one's beliefs for money. Never wonder: one could do everything under the sun just for money. Because of all this, I have begun to lose trust, and I am now a tough person to convince. I seldom believe anyone easily enough to let the cat out of the bag. And it is very hard to count on people like that sometimes. Anyway, people have become evil now. There is an old Buddhist saying: the world does not change; it is the people who change. Time tells us so.

The Sarpang kidnapping cases have become quite alarming. Within a short span of time—three months—four kidnappings were carried out. And they were executed very badly, almost casually, as if kidnapping had become easy. A taxi driver was dragged from the main road and held for more than three weeks. An old man, around sixty years old—like my father—was beaten and pulled out of his house in the evening, also held for three weeks. And very recently, a student was kidnapped from a bar in broad daylight in Sarpang town. The good thing was that everyone saw the act, but nobody even dared to fart. As for the police… everyone knows police work is to chase dogs. During this student's kidnapping, the police may have been snoring, with their unloaded guns pointed toward their own two big eggs.

Not so much to worry about, they say. The deals will be made very soon, and the victims will be returned—though mentally tortured and with an illness that will exhaust them for the rest of their lives. The ransom price for that taxi driver was a bit lower than for the old man. And I think there will be a price hike for that boy. There is no fixed price as such. Inflation and deflation keep going. The last price for an old man was Nu. 500,000. Five lakhs is so much for a poor student now. I hope our government negotiates the price and brings the boy back home safely.

But seriously, border areas have become unsafe places to live in. Commodities may come cheap, but one has to risk one's life to live there. Sarpang, Phuntsholing, Samtse, Samdrup Jongkhar, and Ngalam—all bordering India—have become dangerous places to live. People have no peace of mind; nobody knows who the next victim will be. Some media reports show how worried people are about their security. Last time, some officials from Assam visited Sarpang and promised that such incidents would not be repeated. Despite that assurance, the violence continues. How shameful is that? Can we believe people now? I bet you—don't believe it so easily.

Now, stop playing the blame game. Every one of us must be alert. Carry a patang or a knife inside your gho. Or learn taekwondo or martial arts. Be in groups of trusted people. Travel together with people you know. Above all, our government must do something very quickly. That something could be higher and tighter security alerts, secret agents placed in different areas, and tighter border security.

Our border with India is very porous, making it easy for many goondas to escape after creating enough trouble inside. Even a single mosquito shouldn't pass through our borders. But according to the police, from the apprehended lists last time, some mosquitoes are already in our land. They have formed a kind of partnership business with their Indian counterparts. Business is business, after all. The sons of the Kingdom of Bhutan want to abduct their own people. There is a Dzongkha saying: "Zayang bangchung nang za, awa tang yang bangchung nang tang." A rough adaptation could be: "Eat from the plate and defecate on the same plate." So here we are. You don't have to go far in search of the soul—the soul is very much within you. The deadliest enemy comes from the most known and friendliest people. In Bhutan, it is our own people, and that is a real shame for all of us. We believe in good. Our farmers are humble and happy. We trust each other. But what makes them turn their world upside down? I think it is money. Don't crave too much. We are a GNH country. No wonder.

Pronounce These Words and See How Good You Are

Read this poem by B. Shaw. And if you can correctly pronounce every word in this poem, you will be speaking English is better than 90% of the native English speakers in the world. After trying the verses, a Frenchman said he’d prefer six months of hard labour to read six lines aloud. Try them yourself.

c'est la fin

Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation’s OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!

- B. Shaw