Life of Trees - A Story

There was once a valley—a kind of deep ravine, with a river running roughly through it. Along this torrential slope, two villages faced each other. They lay close; only a heavy pull of an arrow would reach from one side to the other.

The villagers were fertile in terms of population. Each year, the number of people doubled, and little by little, resources became scarcer day by day. For example, to gather firewood, they needed to go farther and farther into the forest each morning.

As I said earlier, the distance between the two villages was roughly the length of an arrow's flight. The people treated this space as a shooting field. They often played archery games, but they never picked up the poison-tipped arrows afterward! In response to this carelessness, a series of harsh words split between the villages. Little boys and girls, young and old—all threw their bad spits at one another. I mean poisoned arrows.


The root of these poisonous arrowheads was the river that ran between them. While it flowed geographically downhill, people on both sides declared ownership. The river became a point of dispute, especially in summer, when crop-growing time was at its peak. It turned out that every household claimed the right to dig its own canals for their rice fields.

The result? The river succumbed to exploitation. Countless tributaries and smaller branches dispersed from the mainstream. If you looked from the other side of the valley, you would see hundreds of finger-like, snaky channels spreading everywhere. This had wrought the land to waste. Because of these snaky tributaries, erosion often took place in summer in both valleys and villages.

On the whole, a spirit of contention had built up inside every mind: each household wanted its own running water canal. The consequence was disastrous. The river was too small to provide sufficient water for every household in both villages. Forty households were too many for a small river to feed, and nearly three hundred people needed to quench their thirst.



The trend quickly emerged that only the wealthy and tough house owners could secure large and continuous flows. The lowly and modest people often received no supply at all. As a result, the poor went to desperate lengths to get their share.

Many untoward problems became routine. People gathered in congregations at night to divert water to their own fields. It became a regular occurrence. There were times when both villages would be present at the river in the dead of night, each trying to redirect the water. Fights would break out, and there was constant nuisance after dark.

The river had turned into a source of sorrows and fury for both villages. No one could live without water—not even animals. Unless people had good rice cultivation, they would do anything. Some even cursed the river. Others blamed the untimely rains. Because of the scarcity of water, many unfortunate people lived their entire lives in poverty.


Soon, villagers began pointing fingers at one another. In broad daylight, they formed groups and yelled across the river. Each village did the same. They claimed their own need was greater, yet the source of the river—the thick tropical forest above the villages—was never properly questioned. Their claims were baseless, as that particular land belonged to what they called "the government."

"Who is the government?" several elders inquired.

It was nobody's land. Everyone had a right. And so the baseless arguments continued.

The villages became a perfect example of a lack of organization and cooperation. Everyone was a master. The natives muddled themselves. All were one, but one was not for all. They did not realize the importance of interdependence.


The river became an arena of fighting. Sometimes, there were funny scenes: allies from both villages stood face to face on the two banks, hurling thousands of verbal abuses and outrageous rages at each other. The watercourse acted as both a barricade and a judge—keeping them from actually hitting one another!

The corollary of such quarrels led to grave destruction of the village forest. People began hacking down trees from both sides—enviously, recklessly. Animals were let loose to graze mercilessly. The jungle caught fire. Within a short span, the land was reduced to an area empty of trees, for the simple reason that it was nobody's territory.


The cost of this deed was felt in the next cultivation season. The source of the river dried up. The course became a dry bed. Even a stone thirsted for water. The dripping wet drops that once appeared on leaves in the morning were gone.

People from both sides gathered with their spades and hoes beside the dry passage. It was vain. Every time, they stared at each other in consternation and then bowed their heads and walked away. It was high time for farming, but there was nothing to be done.

The village elders gathered and looked up at the sky, expecting rains. They performed numerous rituals for the rain god to release drops for their need. But even when the rainfall was heavy, the next day it would be gone. There were no roots left to hold the water. The soil washed away. The course of the river was parched. The source became earthen.

The village turned arid. The thin crops beat against the heat of the sun and soon bent and died. Birds and animals migrated—and never returned. The clouds above the villages thinned out and vanished.

No one understood who had taken the river. Was it because of the frequent fights between the two villages that angered the water demons? Was it because of the trees they had cut down thoughtlessly and acquisitively? No one knew.


What followed was certain: for several whole years, the rain was scant. Poverty settled over the villages. Some people set out in search of food grains to far-flung villages and came back empty-handed. Because of the reputation of their past absurdities, other villagers knew the nature of these people. So they were cruelly welcomed—or not welcomed at all.

Meanwhile, the fertility rate dropped drastically. People didn't even have the energy to work, as they lacked basic nutrition.

Poverty hit for many years. The two villages looked deserted. People became lean and thin because they had nothing to eat. Even then, they would never come together. Everyone played the blame game. One village said the other was responsible. But none accepted fault. Everyone reasoned, but nobody listened.

Villagers were flung apart. They wandered in dread of famine, as cultivation was no longer viable. People knew there was no way to live in their own village. They began to shift to different parts of the country. Some permanently locked their homes and went to relatives. Some went looking for any kind of work. A few groups from both villages had nowhere to go, so they had to stay. But whatever happened, they would not mingle or talk with each other.



That was the dark tragedy of these villages.

After seven years, the most terrific rains—unknown in their history—washed away many houses. The flood cost the lives of seven people: three from one village and four from the other.

This incident had a profound repercussion: it brought them together.

The tragedy alerted everyone. They did not think. They acted briskly. And in a strange way, the tragedy came as a blessing to the two villages.

Both villagers helped each other dig up the bodies. They showed sorrow and offered condolences to the affected families. Then, they noticed something curious. A few houses in both villages had stood completely unaffected by the terrific rains. They went around to look together. To their surprise, they found that each safe house was surrounded by trees and bushes.

There was no question left to ask. They stared at each other for some time and walked away indignantly. Nothing came to their minds at first—only the image of those trees. These few groups of people, who had kept their trees, now had to bear the brunt of everyone else's shame.



Soon, they decided to gather. They began to mingle. They talked about the life-saving trees. They agreed that the cutting down of trees had destroyed their lives. They agreed that the source of their river was the trees. They agreed that the trees were their food. They agreed that nothing would be possible without trees.

For the first time, they thought jointly. They discussed together to find a resolution to the water problem. They became good friends. They became like one family.

The river had been running between their villages for ages. They knew they had fought for it. They knew they had fought for individual benefit. They knew it was a mistake. But their realization would take another generation to fully restore. The brunt of their past needed to be borne by their children's children.


The people of these villages came together hastily. They held a gathering. The discussion was followed by a sumptuous lunch. Each household brought whatever food items remained in their homes. It was a grand celebration of a happy reunion. It turned into an informal gathering. Many even talked about private matters and common things with one another.

At that time, they had nothing in material terms—but they had happiness and unity.



In their public gathering, they decided that every person would bring seven saplings of any tree from the thick jungles below their villages. A date was fixed. On that day, they agreed to bring packed lunch and have a sort of picnic.

And so, on the said day, together, they planted two thousand saplings. The barren land was soon dotted with green shoots. They took care of each tree like their own son or daughter. They fenced them from domestic animals. These trees were their only hope.

The cost of their destruction was to wait another twenty years or more. And they did.



Seventeen years later, a forest of trees grew where their grandparents had once planted. The river once again flowed noisily. People who had left the village returned with congratulations. Birds and animals roamed freely once more. Their neighboring villages looked upon them with awe for what they had accomplished.

The river was shared properly between the two villages. It was equally divided. Each village received one big canal supplying water for all homes. And at last, there was no more nocturnal fighting by the riverside. Instead, a different kind of nocturnal activity grew among the two villagers: boys from each village traveled boldly to the neighboring village, hunting for their beloved ones.



This was the valley—a deep ravine with a river running through it. Along the torrential slope, the two villages lay close, facing each other.

Once, it was a place of disorder, differences, and contentions. But now, they no longer play arrows singularly. They play matches—archery matches almost every month. Now, little boys and girls, young and old, still throw their spits at each other. But this time, they scream playfully to distract the players.

I mean arrows of happiness.

These villagers remain continuously fertile. With free passage to and fro, the roosters have no use in signaling people to wake up. The young men walk out from the houses of their lovers—leisurely, at dawn.

Passang, the Healer

The story below was written by Sherab Zangmo, one of the students from class six. I reproduced her story here as she asked me to publish it on the blog.

Once upon a time, there lived a woman named Passang. She lived on a mountainside in a small hut made of bamboo. Her surroundings were fresh and green, and she depended only on the forest. Berries and forest products were her food. She was lonely, and no one wanted to see her.

Passang had been sent away from her village for a crime she didn’t commit. Everyone in the village considered her evil and believed that she had cursed them. Whenever a small problem arose in the village, they blamed her. They hated her and made her feel low and bad. But she never said anything back to them. She was too kind to argue.

One day, an unknown disease began to spread in the village. Everyone got infected, and no one knew the cure. As always, the villagers blamed Passang. She wanted to tell them it was not her fault, but they never let her speak. Passang was then banished from the village.

Passang had a special ability: she understood different diseases and could make their cures. Only one person knew about this gift—her friend. But the friend was too afraid to speak up, thinking she would be blamed just like Passang. As the disease kept spreading, Passang’s friend finally gathered her courage and told the villagers the truth. She explained that only Passang knew the cure and that she was an expert.

Desperate, the villagers went to seek help from Passang. She first examined the disease and understood the problem. Then she went into the forest, collected a unique flower that held the cure, extracted its essence, and gave it to the people. The sick villagers recovered, and they apologized for their terrible mistreatment of her. At last, Passang was able to return to her village.

Written by:
Sherab Zangmo
Class VI C
Darla Middle Secondary School

A Dissipated Life-A Story of Love and Sacrifice

A dog chased Latu out of the school gate. The dog growled close behind him for some time. Latu leaned against a tree and threw a slice of bread. The dog ran after it and munched greedily. Then it stayed quiet.

"This dog can become friendly after so many days," Latu thought.

The day had been brutal. By evening, the wind broke tree branches, clouds showered heavy rain, and thunder rumbled loudly. Latu was alone on his way home. But not really his home. Before long, he found himself on the path to an unknown journey—his actual, unfamiliar road. The heavy downpour soaked his body.

There, in an unknown place, Latu felt lost. He climbed a trembling treetop to see his home's light. He saw a faint glow, miles away. He didn't know where he was now. He only knew he was deep in a jungle. This was his first journey alone. His friend Kagtong was bedridden and couldn't come to school on the first day. Since Latu's parents had gone for training in a foreign land, he had been sent to this village to study. Only three days had passed since he arrived from the capital of Bhutan. He was to stay with his aging grandparents in this village.

Now, Latu listened and scanned every direction of the jungle. He was scared of ghosts and spooky things in the deep forest. He was afraid of wild animals. Latu was late today because of the distribution of textbooks—it was the first day of school, and as a new student, he received his books last.

It was already seven in the evening. He ran wildly wherever his thoughts took him. It was the fastest run he had ever made. Before he collapsed on the ground with exhaustion, he saw a house in front of him. It was built of stone and mud, with a thatched roof. He wanted to ask whoever lived there to direct him home. With great relief, he went inside. He pushed open the ajar door and was greeted by a young girl his age. She was cooking something. Seeing an uninvited guest, she shouted in fright for a moment.

He looked at her, thirsty and desperate. Dazzled and stunned, he saw that she was a simple-looking, slim girl with bunched hair—utterly lovely. He stood there speechless.

"Oh God, to be loved by her!"

"Who are you?" she mumbled.

"I have never seen such a girl in Thimphu," Latu burst out without thinking.

"What!"

The heavy rain suddenly softened to a drizzle. The pit-a-pat of the raindrops became like love. The wind became a breeze. The thunder became music. Everything turned into a trance of love and longing. He felt that today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or someday—he wanted to be with her. He watched her, and his happiness exploded.

She asked him many questions, which only made him more blank. He looked at her lips and her eyes. They were perfect. An angel had visited a poor home.

"I just wanted to ask you the way to Memey Dogdola's house," Latu quivered.

"Oh, you're the new guy from Thimphu, here to study. Go seven steps down from my house, then take the straight path to the right." She beamed.

"Okay, okay, I'll come tomorrow," he said hurriedly, hearing some noises outside.

Latu counted down the steps gladly when a powerful torchlight from the right side forced him to stop. His face was now in full light.

"So when we're away, this is what our daughter has been doing?" a man sneered.

It was her father and mother.

"Oh no, I came here to ask my way home," Latu said quickly.

"Who are you?" a woman's voice asked, flashing her torchlight on Latu's face.

"I'm Memey Dogdola's grandson," he said, and hurried away while they murmured and went inside.

He felt an awful emptiness walking home as the rain beat down. He could only hear his own heartbeat. Once he reached home, Latu sat at his desk and pretended to study so his Memey wouldn't question him. Inside his mind, he could think of nothing but that girl.

The next day, Latu met her. To his great surprise, she was there too—at the same school, Nangkor High School, in the same ninth grade.

"I didn't see you the first day," Latu said in class.

"Yes, I stayed home helping my parents." Her soft breath entered his heart.

"I'm Latu Tshering. And you?"

"Choden."

Soon they became good friends. They shared everything under the sun. Everything was perfect, especially their romance. Their relationship developed a bond that was hard to break. Their days became the shortest and happiest of their lives after they found each other. It became Latu's daily routine: whatever the weather, whatever the troubles at night, he would quietly go and spend his evening at her house.

A year or so passed. After a few rare discussions about their future, they decided to drop out of school and get married. Their reasons were that they couldn't study properly and were held back in the same grade, that teachers complained about their behavior, and that their parents frequently reminded them they were wasting money.

After a year of married life, Choden spoke as if she had changed her mind.

"My Ajang Karpo asked me to come to Thimphu," she said.

"For what?"

"To find a job. To be honest, if we stay like this, our life will be ruined in this village. He found me a job."

"No, how can you go? You and me—we will start together, work together, survive together," Latu sighed.

"I'll come back and get you after I find a job. Maybe a month."

And that was how she left—without giving him time to show how much he loved her.

He hated those who chatted with her. Jealousy was a crazed love. He had noticed it back in their school days. Now she was gone—very far away.

To pour out his desperation, Latu gained the courage to write a letter every day. He wrote long letters about their past, cheered her up endlessly. He told her everything, gave his heart and soul. He wrote how she had broken his heart when she left. He wrote of his hope to see her soon. They had no secrets. His only real fear was that they might one day lose each other without ever being together again.

Days went by, incredibly okay. She wrote back. She promised she would find a job and return to him. She asked him to wait another two months. She wrote that they would make a comfortable life with the money she earned.

Their foam-like love lasted three months. Latu wrote almost every day. But her letters grew fewer—one or two a month. Then months passed. Then he received none. Latu was in hell. Those trances of happiness and charm vanished forever when he heard from village gossip that she had been found floating in the Thimphu River.

Life was dead. The paths were blurred. Silent traces of memory killed him—memories shut to his chest, to be valued and cherished, until he could bear it no longer. It was a nightmare. He couldn't accept that after so many months of love, she was gone, leaving nothing but grief to show she had ever been there.

Why should she leave when there was so much beauty in her, so much life to be lived, so much love she had received?

He walked out on all his dreams.

He cried in defeat.

Three days later, her Ajang Karpo gave him a small note found in her room. It read:

Dear Loving Latu,

The truth of life is sometimes hard to tell, especially when one has so much love. I know my life. I separated from you on purpose. I hope you will understand. My short life was shortened by brain cancer. I had only another month to live. I couldn't bear to see you watch me die. So I ended my life in the water, far from you.

Start a new life, Latu. I am sorry we could not grow old together. The little savings I have are in your name.

Yours always,
Choden

Latu sweated with cold tears.

Coincidence (Story)

Life has many twists and turns, and these twists and turns are the facts of realism. For every curve, there is a bend, and for every bend, there is a curve. For every significant day, there is an insignificant day. Because of the so-called unimportant days, a notable day exists in our lives. There are moments in life, thoughtless days, and unforgettable days.

Pema too has such a moment—an unforgettable day.

Pema, the celebrator of this day, is a brilliant boy of ten. Brilliant—yes, he is the topper of his class. Teachers gasp at his artwork. "What a beautiful drawing, Pema!" In every school drawing competition, the first prize is booked for him, always. That is Pema. Pema Tashi.

He is ten now, but he will never forget the day that shaped his life—blissfully. That was when he was eight years old.

He would care for, recollect, and muse over that day—the most important day of all his days. It was the day he heard that he had won a national-level poetry writing competition. He received the news on 12/11/2004. He was cherished, one of the happiest persons in the whole world. It was the turning point in his life. Because of that particular poem, he became a recognized figure. That beloved day encouraged him to continue writing from the heart and by his own hand. But it wasn't only the winning. On that day, something bizarre, unexpected, and special happened to him. Something greater than his victory.

On the night of November 11, 2004, he had a dream. He was trudging across dangerous, craggy rocks, sweating to cross them. His whole body was drenched. Then, from nowhere, a bird appeared—he couldn't name it—a white bird. The bird came beneath him and carried him to what felt like home. It was a beautiful home, filled with the radiance of candles and butter lamps. In front of him stood Jampelyang—the god of wisdom. Pema bowed low. Soon, he was awakened by a piece of music. He couldn't grasp the words. It was just a dream! To hear the music again, he tried to sleep, but sleep was gone. It was already dawn. All he could hear were knocks.

Pema opened the door. He was surprised to see a group of friends near the door, holding newspapers, all smiles and applause. He was down to earth! What had happened? Without delay, his friends told him what he would never forget for the rest of his life. They showed him the newspaper—his poem and his name were there. The previous weekend, he had sent a poem to the newspaper for the Kids' Poetry Competition. He had written about a tree in a treeless land: how a single tree changed the lives of many people, how it provided shelter for many lives. He described the shape of the tree, the surrounding landscape, and the weather conditions. It was a good poem, he thought—at least.

His poem was nominated as the best in the country. He had become like that single, lonely tree—now thronged by so many people in a short time. This day had changed him, just as his tree in the poem had changed many lives. In the struggle of his life, a white bird had appeared. This bird was his poem. He flew high. He was elated with the hive of life. The day became even more joyful when his English teacher read his poem and held him up as an example to his fellow students. Miss Dema read it three times! His teachers were proud. His classmates were proud. His school had something to be recognized for. Everyone congratulated him—all the teachers, a group of friends, a group of girls. His mother, brothers, and sisters were over the moon. His tree had brought change. His whole life had made a U-turn. After that, life had no more twists—it moved straight, no crooked paths, no hooks. He was to stay here, writing and receiving awards.

The day was swift. Merriness was everywhere, but one thing always lingered in his mind: his father's return. His father was said to have gone far away for further studies or some sort of training in the USA. Pema had been waiting for him for more than six years. His father had left when Pema was only two. His father sent letters. He sent photos. And only through those photos had Pema ever seen his father. His father sent love and hugs but never came. Pema's mother expected him to return anytime—for his children, if not for her sake. "The hope of my papa will remain as my dream," Pema told his mother one day. She always tried to make him think of other things and always told him that his father would come someday.

If Pema were to divide his mind into parts, about seventy percent was in a merry mood. Still, he felt incomplete that day. The sun was moving, touching the tip of the mountain. His heart melted down with the sun. His happiness began to melt too. He was sitting at the entrance, reading his poem "Tree." Lost. There was a rush of wind and a sweet aroma from the doorway. Pema looked up. He saw a gentleman, standing tall, looking at him, and smiling at him. He perfectly matched those photos. Behind the man, his mother beamed and burst out, "Here is your father!"

Pema ran toward him, and his happy tears ran down too. "What a coincidence of happiness!" Pema blurted out.

If his happiness had a volume, it would measure the entire space of the earth's joy.

From his long-awaited father, Pema had expected something—and his expectation did come true that day. His father gave him a white laptop from a black suitcase, so he could do more writing. Moreover, his father promised that he would stay with them for the rest of his life. Pema's happiness reached its brim. That day had chosen him—life had chosen him, God had chosen him. He was the chosen one, the most important one on that day. The day was unlike any other because of the series of momentous events. Pema soon narrated his day's events to his father and concluded with the remark, "This white bird is my white laptop." His mother laughed and said, "This white laptop is not a white bird." And his father said, "This laptop is a white bird." Everyone laughed.

That day was the most important and most colorful day of his life. If he ever had a remote control for his life, he would rewind and pause it to enjoy it slowly. He wondered if he would ever have a dream as beautiful as the one he had on that day. And he hoped that one day, the white bird would take him to the real world, where he could hear that beautiful music again.

Why Are You Reminded After a Long Time?

People say you should take things as they come and that time is the only solution. I know this now. Sitting near my laptop, I feel as if some flickering parts of my life have shattered and darkness has ascended. A swamp of memories rushes in upon me—long struggles, my afflictions, my wasted life, my moments of loneliness. Now I feel very hurt, but I keep those bad memories and thoughts to myself. A shameful consciousness of my own person harasses me. I see myself as clownish, a pitiable guy in the reflection of a glance. But I have learned to shake myself free of it and continue to caress my life. And now I question why I was so different, so hesitant.

It was an awful, empty day. The days were the longest and saddest of my life. That was before she ditched me like a duster.

She was incredibly stunning. The center of bait for many people like me, who had fallen and become victims of love. I played a small role in her life. She fooled me by staying around all my life. I began to sink further into the bleakness of silent love. The more I watched, the more I despised my own weakness. She tormented my thinking, never let me sleep well—visions and images filled everything around me.

There were many students I could name who looked physically fine to my eyes, but her history told me that she had never accepted any of them. She was seen as an extravagant girl.

What happens when one loves someone? It was a kind of ambivalent feeling. I both hated and loved her. What more was there? She was charming and gracious. Love had nothing to do with wealth, fame, or beauty. It simply happened. Loving her would mean loving everything—if only I could have her.

I wonder how these beautiful ladies react when they receive too much attention and loving, sweet smiles. How do they take it in and feel about it? I guess they would be flying high in the sky. I knew that some ladies simply stab a heart with a sweet, poisoned knife, shatter green hearts, speak the cruelest words, break hearts into pieces, and then move away silently. And the guys dissolve into unpredictable acts—drinking, drugs, quarrels, going mad, attempting suicide, and more unspeakable things.

These were some of the reasons that made me petrified and regretful.

In college, I would wait, carefully timing the moment when I could pass her on the stairs and whisper, "Good morning." And she would answer cheerfully, "Good morning."

That was all that ever passed between us.

Women are like empty pots, waiting to be filled. They need three sweet, shallow reasons to fill them and make them feel wanted and happy.

Watching her everywhere—any place, anywhere—she would laugh with her friends and roam with many boyfriends. Her heaven was the space she occupied. But she—yes, she, the girl whom I loved so much—was ignorant of my presence. "Does she know if someone loves her?" I often asked that. The refusal was the most horrible drug. In my thoughts, I would have done everything with her. Je ne sais quoi she was.

My tortured soul told me, "Hold her in your arms now and never let go." But it wasn't worth it. She had to have a choice of her own, too. I was shilly-shallying.

"Will she ever choose a man who loves her very much?" I wondered. At all costs, I stayed away from her unless and until she wanted to see me. If not, I would only suffer.


Two years later, she came to meet me. I saw her again, looking sad and worried. My mouth opened wide when she greeted me lovingly. I broke into a sly smile. My mind said, "How many more years must she make me suffer? Anyway, not all love leads to married life. True love lasts forever—as long as you find another true love."

Karma might have had its way, but it did not come to me at that moment. When she put her hand on my shoulder and closed her eyes and asked, "Are you married?" I couldn't answer her, although my heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when I had been wishing for it so much, she had come to me of her own accord.

It was the best and the worst thing happening in my life.

"Why?" I asked.

"He left me. And he is dead now."

"Somebody you were in love with?" I asked her dryly. A wave of dull anger began to gather at the back of my mind.

"Yes. A year back, he left me and home because of some quarrels. On his way, his car went off the road. I think he died because of me."

Choking on sobs, she was overcome by her emotions and dropped down onto my knees.

Rage. A huge thunderstorm raced in my blood.

"Will you kill me too? Do you think I'm a fool—a spoiled brat? Do you think I'm your second man, to come and use whenever you like?" I said into the void. She didn't hear.

So she had had that romance in her life—a wealthy man who died because of her. It pained me to consider how poor a part I had played in her life. No, not a poor part. Perhaps the biggest role I played in her life was no role at all.

The lady I had longed for so many years vanished in just a second. On the other hand, her girlish beauty had almost gone. But my past feeling toward her cooled the thunderstorm raging inside me. One by one, they all became shades, then faded like the dying embers of a fire. Soon, generous tears filled my eyes. "Did she know what I went through all those longing years?"

I was modestly taken by love. It poisoned me—most probably by her beauty. I asked her happily, "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

"I knew you for so many years. I know that you wished to live with me," she said in a distant tone. "I am sorry I ignored you. But why didn't you tell me the day you loved me?"

The last sentence seemed to hurt. "Only I was diffident and could not approach her. That led to a story and a wasted life. I regret it." The words rang in my mind.

"Yes, now I shouldn't refuse you. I need you. I should not blame you, for it was the only love, Choden," I told her.

Trembling with a mixture of delight and sadness, I stood close to her. She put her hands on my shoulder, and with her sudden hug, I fell to her so easily.


But the story I have never asked my wife—now—is about that wealthy lover who died for her sake. How long will it continue like this? In fact, until our very last breath. Because if you dig up decayed stool, it smells a lot.

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.