Happiness is the Gift of Life

We celebrated International Happiness Day on 20^th March. To mark this, I have a very short story told by my mother. I have briefed it here: In one urban center, let's say, Thimphu, there lived two boys; one was from a rich family and the other from a poor family. One common thing they had was undying friendship, they were friends. Rich had everything, poor nothing, except his kind parents and two brothers. Likewise, the rich boy had parents and three brothers.

One day the poor boy visited the rich boy’s house, and he saw that the rich boy’s family was not very happy. Each member did their own work. Brother busied himself with computer- playing games. Mother was playing card games with a group of men and other children were fighting, and the father was quarreling with mother. The house was not clean. The poor boy was not even asked to sit. Although they had everything, they didn’t have happiness. The house was in mess. When the poor boy came back, he was heavy-hearted, he learned one thing, and although he had nothing in his home he had happiness. His family stayed happily. They shared everything together. The house was filled with care and love. It was a cleaned house. It was a happy family and a happy home. The poor boy understood one thing then, that happiness was the gift in life, given by god to them. And there was nothing better than happiness in life.

The Bad Things of Good Things

“Ask! Ask! If you don’t know. Inquire, if you want to know. Ask Zangpo, why I drink often a lot. Zangpo knows all. He sees me as I see. He does what I do. He cares for me like nobody else.”

Once upon a time, flowers bloomed. The fruits were dunned and dropped before anyone could pick. No one could eat the fruit. Hoped and desperation hung in the empty spaces. Everyone was left alone.

Alone, to me then, and now, I need to survive. How will I survive when I have given part of my heart and life? It takes a long time to mend the life like before, that was so full. My broken heart sinks and cuts like a knife. But why did you do such things? Our friendship has been pretentious. Rich friends have rich hearts of love, sounds now befuddled to me. I’m retracing now that you have just shown me the duplicity of friendship.

“Birds of the same feather flock together,” read it when I was in seven standards. So were Pasang(name changed) and me, who became fast friends in a distant school in the capital. Similarities attract each other. We were silent. We were the first time. Ours were innocent parents.

Pasang as I observed as the days began to move was too conservative, hardworking, divinely religious, self-praised, did not drink any kind of liquor and had the best habit of always volunteering to be the class captain or some such like others. In this sense, I was quite different; I was always silent observer, and I sometimes sneaked out silently from the class and drank in melancholy moods.

When days and the months passed, we were seen and regarded as friends by other fellow mates. So, the chance of having other friends was less. You can’t befriend all in the school, if you are, you have no true friends. This happens in school life. You can’t befriend the time with all.

Seeds of friendship were planted spontaneously. Our surroundings said so. Hence, we shared to eat, to study together, sometimes in my house and occasionally in his house. I supposed we became true friends then. He was our volunteered captain. We were in a different class then. Many mates of his cursed him for being so authoritarian in the class and refused to have him the next month's captain. So I guessed he lost the future chance.

Life rolled on. The youth was the age of rupture. Everything ruptured in a wee time.

After two years, we were again in NIE, Samtse as a training mate. He was different then. I had have always considered him as a friend, anywhere, everywhere, whatever I did. But he was quite different. He ignored me simply. I didn’t mind much. When the days passed, he had begun to win respect from elders and lecturers by polishing and volunteering for them. He himself volunteered to be a house counselor in the first year. The story was the same; many mates hatred him for being authoritative and using his power wickedly. I always thought he was really a bad leader and counselor.

Our friendship became so thin that whenever we meet, he talked little or ignored me. like the petals of the flowers felling one by one, our bonds too broke it one by one. Although, I thought he would help when the there was a need him. The truth was I was under him, in his house captainship, and it was only me who he could make me work SUPW in front of his eyes. I didn’t mind it so much.

I remember vividly, the beginning of the death of our friendship and I took this incident very seriously. What he did to me that day. He himself, without any reason, turned against me completely. It was on the NIE football field. Such a sycophantic person he was one of the judges of the football match. I was a ball retriever. He threatened me to be the retriever, if not; he would report to his other sycophant lecturer, and if I refused to do, that would have created enough problems to lose marks. The ball retriever's job was to get the ball when it went outside. Talking part in games and sports like ball catcher would mean marks to pass our course. Half-match over. Resting time was it? I was about to sit on the empty chair nearby him. And what he said was never to be forgotten and forgiven, “Go, don’t sit here ball boy, go there.” He pointed to the sewage drain. It wasn’t his chair, and the ball boy would usually sit sometimes. I remained silent and sat on the muddy smelling tank. It wouldn’t have been so ashamed if it weren’t for the crowd of girls, who had heard it and were looking at me in an unpleasant way. I had not had a single girl in my life. My face would be on the iron fire if I ever talked with them. The match started. I went to talk with him, but he was damned.

The match got over. The player came for the refreshment. They took out the fruity juice. The juice distributor was about to give me the juice but he came and snatched the juice away from me. Then he turned his back and announced to all the players and judges to drink all juice bottles. I tried reacting to him by saying something in a comical way to make matter light, but he was damned. At that moment, I couldn’t resist, and I was about to hit my best friend. But I controlled. I was really ashamed. What wrong did I do to my true friend? I didn’t realize anything of that. Behind the curtain, I thought something was there in his mind that he hated me so much. I questioned myself that real friends wouldn’t exploit or deride such things among people.

Now I know, some people are like dry leaves, they fall without any use to their own tree. They fall, move here and there for some time, and get blown away, unseen from the mother tree. So are many of our friends.

It was the last thing I would ever see or hear in my life.

I wished for the dearest death! Five years back! The devil-minded friend lost his wife. How deep he loved her. She ran into the jungle to be hanged herself.

A few months later, there was a very devastating letter. I didn’t look at it with surprise.

“Why anyone didn’t tell me of that. It became clear now, that you, my best friend have kept up spirited throughout these many years. I lost my wife for I was mindless and treated like you, Zangpo. I drink my life now.” There was little satisfaction in my mind that he still remembered those bad days. I replied to him, “In life, we remember only bad things; let’s try to forget those bad happenings, and remember good things.” I hoped this small universal lesson would help him.  

DON'T NURTURE FRIENDSHIP WITH SELFISH PEOPLE

Note: The above article is a somewhat true story of the author’s life, though some details are truncated for the brevity of the story.

My Dear Jane is a Game

Today (3-3-12- I write this article), I will post my undisclosed secret of not being a kind of sticker with girls like other friends. And guess why this day, not earlier not after… I am afraid I wouldn’t leave to those days like my Mr. Dog. Today, my dear Seltu-Mr. Dog kicked his bucket. He has been suffering from strange illnesses for 20 days. He moaned and whined with tears in his eyes. I took him to a veterinarian but to no avail, his condition remained the same. I buried him near my maize field, said goodbye to my faithful friend, and returned home wiping some tears. My pains didn’t end there. Likened to my Mr. Dog, I have been moaning and whining for 20 years, not less, not more, 20 years and not 20 days. I know the exact day, 7-7-1987 to 7-7-2007. Wow, how dates match. And this is the story between these years.

This is no tale-telling tale. It’s a true, tearing story of pain and weepy me and my inane happenchance feelings. The story begins from the beginning and leads to the ending (uh, it should). 
Pre-primary school was such a fun. Many unashamed girls dashed each other, kids without underwears roll on without any reason, and kids would punch eachother without any reason. But one lovely picture was to encrusted in my mind. Pictures, arts, photos were loved by children and that’s how children were made to get attracted to books. I picked up my first picture book, which would remain for 20 years. I was attracted by its cover’s art and such was the thought of mine, she soon necame possessed to me. Simply, she was beautiful, with a little white cloche on her head. Her face was pure and white. Her dreamy eyes smiled, her nose was molded well, her lips were sparklingly crimson. All beautiful adjectives describe her beautiful face. I tried to recognize the letters of which were big and bold, J…A…N…E  A…U…S…T…E…N, and below there were some small letters E…M…M…A. what was that? Anyway, I knew her face, I enviously hid this ‘J’ book in the corner of the bookshelf so that others friends wouldn’t find and touch that picture next time. And whenever I visited the library I got that book and immersed myself with her. She stared at me, I stared at her, and I laughed at her and she did too. Friends called me crazy and fool to laugh at myself. I was not a fool, I was laughing with my girl. I had really fallen in love with her. And many a time, I got bereft from the librarian while I stood near the door hoping to enter inside. “Do you want to rob the library or what Khotsa?” “No Lopen, I just want to see some books.” And the same response would come, “But your period is over. Go?” I really seemed to be maddened when I came running and tearing from my beloved one, who was locked up inside the room. The closer I went to the room, the safer my feelings become. She was then, preoccupied in my mind.

 
I had a good chance to possess the book, the same kind of book. I told my father I would never go to school without having one book from the store, as teachers would punish me for not bringing the book. 
i fabricated this just to get the book.
Traveling for three days from my village, we went to a bookstore in Samdrupjongkha. My father grumbled repeatedly after buying the book, “What’s wrong? There is nothing in the book. Just a girl?” Surprised or not I was very happy. I kept the book just above my head watching over me. I felt safe and happy.

I completed my standard VI and nobody could believe my result, I was awarded the first division. My friends thronged around me, “How come you stayed the whole year with one book and got first? That Rogtola (nicknamed given to class position holder) is second?” I was surprised too. I believed in believing someone and that someone to me was that Jane, a girl I had fallen in love with. The more I believed in her, the more real she appeared to me, and the more I succeeded. I chilled my days. I carried my Jane everywhere and by then, the cover had abraded and smudged but her face shined through. I came to know that the book was the story of Emma, who suffered the threats of misconstrued romance (There was nothing to do with the content of the book but the cover was a treasure to me).
I never showed the book to anyone and if anyone saw in that high standard class with the low standard book, one would go crazed. And that was what happened one unfortunate day in the home after my tenth standard common exam. My father ransacked and laughed at me, “This is what you learn in class ten? We bought this book when you were starting your grade and uhhh…still on this.” My mother's interference made the matter worst. They talked to each other and I could get some words. “He seemed to be masturbating looking at this art girl.” My father intentionally said so that I changed my behavior. I felt hurt. I was saddened when they said to leave the book and study the materials. My girl didn’t deserve this, to be called nonsense- masturbating. I rose up, ran outside and sat under a tree while my mother noised, “What happen?” The wind blew heavy. Little then I realized that I had been obsessed by her hollow love. The leaves of the tree-shaded and it almost covers me for I had sat there for almost a day. My mother came with the book, “Take this, this is all yours.” My mother consoled me as if she had understood my feelings. “No, I put this book by mistake in my bag.” My mother forgave me though I had done nothing wrong. But there was my father who ridiculed me and calling often “dead log,” “ludicrous boy,” “be careful,” and scores of others.
 
The next academic started and I was to leave my other half at home. Before I came out from the home, my father thoroughly frisked my bags, and finding the book on his own bed, he let me go. It was axing of a tree. I bled and the whole year, missing and pissing went on. I didn’t have any lover as I had already one and I didn’t want to betray my childhood love. I kept in mind and there was one thing in my life now, to know who she is. Life was whirling in the flood then; troubled studies and unsayable emotional sicknesses.  I tried to find that book, but it was out of edition. She came to my mind and in my dreams as an angel. My dear Jane predisposed me to the game of love. I did spend those mystified years with her, emotionally and mentally.
 
The same story plunged me into my three years B.Ed (Bachelor of Education) course in Samtse. However, I thought a little less of her, as I had to be busy with my tough materials. But my dear Jane was often in my dream. One day I vividly remembered I told my friend unnoticing to myself that I love Jane very much. That friend got quite surprised and irritated about Jane and he said, “Don’t remind me of that, I loved that art of a girl.” I laughed at him but stopped it abruptly knowing the consequence. Such was the fate of loving a girl. My mind was as if hit with a big tong, plucked out my dream. Dream or real, I thought about her day and night.
 
The avenues of life changed more than our government changes its policies. It cicatrized at times. Technologies adjust life and the technologies revive and destroy too. The feeling of pride of modernization, the feeling of new things, I opened the internet and it was the blindest searched to see my art girl. Everyone would question me now. It crazed me too. And believe me, it was exactly her. I couldn’t misjudge it as I had been her for so many years. And believe me, she had worn that same little white cloche cap on her head. The same pure and white face, the same dreamy eyes, the same sparking lips. Her picture on the screen lingered with me. I read her details (and sorry I don’t want to share her details, my wife will kill me!). Her name was not Jane this time,  she was something--- but I like to call her Jane. My father would learn all the ways to operate the internet if I show the art girl again. And about that book and art girl, my father, later on, told me through his telephonic conversation that he really got some misunderstanding with my mother and she had to burn that book. But to me now I have the internet to see her every day. My father would wish that too.
 
In fact, to see her and to think about was to throw me like a stone fling far apart, ditched and separated. She was far; so many mountains and seas separated us. I had fallen, my hands shivered to write something to her. I, blinded with love words, expressionless and wordless I suffered. And Jane if somehow you read this true story about you, I would like to say that I have been waiting for you twenty years just like my Mr. Dog, moaning and whining. And sorry to say, my dear Jane, life like this to live…I am married and what to do my dear Jane you will remain in my heart forever and ever and ever till I kick the bucket and till my soul ceases to function. This I promise you. But my wife is my life now.

The ugly Foundling

He was born three years before me. I can still feel the guilty pangs when my family and relatives were around him. He was my big brother, Legpa. This was rather ironical: though I was the young­est in the family, all the care and concern due to me were all showered on him.

My brothers were handsome with moon-shaped face and well-finished nose. My sisters and I were fair with soft skin and straight hair. But Legpa, as eve­rybody started to call him was very different. He was outsized, dark, had a long nose, with tiny eyes below a protruding brow and I would be most ashamed to be found in the company of my dis­tinctly unattractive brother.

He was just plain ugly, and I would think, should have been excluded from our family.

On his birthday once, I cruelly commented, “You look like an Atsara,” which annoyed my Mom to no end. She held him closer to her bosom to protect and console him. She later told me that I should not say such things because Legpa was my elder brother. But instead of apologizing, I said on  his face, “I hate and despise you!”

I dashed from the room angry and jealous; I felt that my mother loved only him.

Legpa was not simply ugly, he was dimwitted too. He giggled foolishly but always seemed at ease with what he was. He didn’t anguish over the things he couldn’t do. He walked in a shambling gait and his form was devoid of any athleticism whatsoever.

When he was eleven years old, Mom insisted that he go to school. He was duly admitted, two years ju­nior to me, because of his mentally challenged state. I resented having Legpa at my school and pitilessly stayed apart from him. Even if he begged to carry my pack-lunch, I’d refuse. Whenever he’d come running towards me with his ugly laughing face, I would scoot just to be out of his sight. He never showed hurt with my goings-on but would instead forgive me.

Legpa had the character we never had. He’d get ex­cited with anything that came his way. He would wash our clothes, help mom in the kitchen and clean the house. And when we’d make fun of his appear­ance and call him, ‘Atasara’, he would smile, while we would roll on the lawn, holding our belly, laughing and teasing.

He always wanted to be with us, but my mates and I would run away, teasing him and shouting his nick­name. I never loved him the way a sister should love her big brother but hated him. Instead, he loved me.

With the passage of time, we grew up. All of us got married and left our parents. We were so busy with our own families, that we didn’t have enough time to be with our parents. Legpa was the only one with them, preparing their food, attending to them when they were sick and rendering all possible love.

I once went to meet my parents. Only then did the reality of life dawned on me that the ugliest things in life could be the best. Legpa, whom I thought the ugliest creature alive, was the pride and joy of my parents’ dotage. We were never ever able to serve them like Legpa did. He was their best kid.

*Ataara-clown like

*Legpa- pet name meaning ‘good’

The above story was published on 8/4/2006 in Kuensel (National Newspaper) Bhutan and awarded the best story. I wrote this story in 1999, when I just completed my 10^th standard. Of course, the story was modified later.