Tell Me Wai-A Slightly Painful Review of Soong Na Oie

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I watched a movie called Soong Na Oie yesterday. Roughly translated- Tell Me Wai—though by the end, I was begging, Tell me why. The film is quite run-of-the-mill, and it rolls so flat it might as well be a bread. Directed by experienced filmmaker Mr. Tshering Wangyel, the movie once again falls into one of his trite genres: the love story. Soong Na Oie tries to reflect both sides of life—tradition and modern fashion—but ends up looking confused, like someone wearing a gho with sneakers.  The protagonist, who seems to be an antagonist to his own family, has one glaring problem: he badly needs to shampoo his hair. And I mean badly. Phurba Thinley, playing a sly and panderous monk, correctly observes that the hero's hair resembles that of a porcupine lost in the forest. This, apparently, is meant to reflect our youth's love for Korean culture. But last I checked, Korean stars have fabulous hair, not nesting grounds for small birds. Still, the porcupine look is certainly… a choice.

On the other hand, the female protagonist showcases the real simplicity of village life. She is pure, kind, and probably knows how to grind millet while humming a folk song. So we know from the start that these two wildly different lives will somehow fuse in the end—like milk and butter. Unlikely, but Bhutanese audiences will accept it. One dialogue that viewers will remember—whether they want to or not—is the frequent repetition of Yeid May Na, which roughly translates to There is something. The moment the hero speaks, he starts with Yeid May Na… and then proceeds to say absolutely nothing. There is no something. There is just nothing. It's like ordering a pizza and receiving an empty box with a note that says, "There was supposed to be something here."

The story is entirely predictable—run-of-the-mill and no different from the director's past movies. In fact, his earlier films that I've watched were far better. This one only comes alive because of Phurba Thinley and Azha Namgay's comedies. Without them, this movie isn't for elder citizens—it's a child's play acted out with slightly better cameras. The film also features many loud, earsplitting songs, most of which are lyrical masterpieces like I love you, you love me. Shakespeare must be rolling somewhere.

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On the positive side (yes, there is one), the movie was shot mostly in the picturesque valleys of Bumthang and Paro. The stunning background is the real plus point. You get to see the greenery of Bhutan—at least until a song blasts and you have to look away to save your eardrums. Another good part? The ending. Not because it's good, but because it means the movie is over. As with many films, the side-splitting fights and dialogues keep you engaged for a few minutes. Then the movie ends—right when it should be reaching its climax. And as you already know, the worst become good, good overcomes bad, and somewhere out there, a porcupine is getting a shampoo sponsorship.

One Book to Read Before You Die

Many of us have read countless books over the years—some truly transformative, others so forgettable they could double as sleeping pills. I’m no exception. A few books have left such a deep mark on me that I still carry their lessons around like emotional luggage (the carry-on kind, not the lost-at-the-airport kind). Among my all-time favorites are The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma, a fable about chasing your dreams and finding your true purpose—ideally before your knees give out, and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, an exhilarating novel dripping with optimism. The latter gently insists that anything is possible if you want it badly enough: just follow your dreams, listen to your heart, and apparently ignore logistics, budgets, and common sense. Then there are timeless masterpieces like Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, and Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations—each a brilliant, essential read for anyone trying to navigate life’s glorious mess.

Most of these I’ve read once or twice, but one book keeps calling me back like an old friend who knows all my flaws and doesn’t judge. That book is J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. At first, the title didn’t grab me—it sounded vaguely like a farming manual for depressed guardians. But once I dove into the first few lines, I found myself laughing out loud at its raw, goddam cynical expressions. Now, whenever I feel blue, I reach for this book. It keeps me company. It helps me forget—especially that embarrassing thing I said in 2007.

The Catcher in the Rye is a goddam must-read before you die. The language is vulgar, crude, yet strangely humorous—like a grumpy uncle who somehow makes you feel better about your own failures. Set in the 1950s, the story is narrated by a young man named Holden Caulfield, a character many believe mirrors aspects of Salinger’s own life. Holden is a complex figure—seemingly a failure, a restless outsider who struggles with alienation, loneliness, and a distinct lack of a GPS for life. At times, he’s disaffected, disgruntled, and deeply sarcastic, retreating into a world of his own making—one he calls full of “phony” people and ideas. (Spoiler: according to Holden, almost everyone is phony. Including, possibly, the guy who invented sliced bread.)

The book was admired by former U.S. President George H.W. Bush, who called it “a marvelous book.” I couldn’t agree more, and let’s be honest—any book that gets a president to say “goddam” in his head is doing something right. I love its voice, its raw honesty, and how Holden’s frustration spills out in unforgettable phrases: “goddam,” “it kills me,” “how I hate this,” “he’s a moron,” “pain in the ass,” “bastard,” “crazy”—expressions that keep you laughing, even through the sadness. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s absolutely worth reading. Just don’t expect Holden to like you. He doesn’t like anyone. But somehow, that’s exactly why you’ll love him.