A Transitory Life

"Sometimes you are nobody in life, you have no money,

You are not successful, you are not pretty,

but you mean well and have a good heart.

People should pay more attention to people like that."  says Celine Dion.

Last time, on one of my trips, I had a feeling of the weird unnaturalness of this transitory world. There is nothing as "yesterdays" or "tomorrows"—as such, it's fleeting. We live to see shifting things around us. It's difficult to pass through so many kinds of lives, and to think about dying, parting, and leaving all these loving people and the world—only to become nothing.

Some images of life that ring hard within us (all photographs are from my photo albums except two from Google).

Sleep, for maniacs infatuate this world 

Poor man, rich heart. "Wealth and riches are illusory; show not over-fondness for them." A Buddhist saying. (Photo courtesy: Google)



Running into the midnight. "It is better to travel well than to arrive."Buddha.(photo courtesy: Google)

The nature of flower and our life is same: to stand in the rains or shines and then decay. Life is transitory, like the morning dewdrops on the grass; Be not idle, nor give time to worthless works, O Guru

"All worldly pursuits have but one unavoidable and inevitable end, which is sorrow; acquisitions end in dispersion; buildings in destruction; meetings in separation; births in death. Knowing this, one should, from the very first, renounce acquisitions and storing-up, and building, and meeting; and, faithful to the commands of an eminent Guru, set about realizing the Truth. That alone is the best of religious observances."-Milarepa

Ever transient is this world of ours; all things change and pass away; For a distant journey even now prepare. So, know emptiness, and be compassionate.

Chick

Reader's Restriction:
The humor below is intended only for a mature audience, as it contains some suggestive language. The writing does not necessarily blame any language or culture.




Born and brought up in eastern Bhutan, the only language I knew was Sharchokpa. But I always wanted to learn other people's tongues. And since Lhotsampa was quite the popular on the linguistic block, I was excited to pick it up.

In Class IV, luck finally smiled at me. Enter Bishnu Kafley—my Lhotsampa friend. We remained thick as thieves for many years, right up until we graduated Class VIII. After that, life happened, and we lost each other. But hope floats. One fine day, we shall meet again, and I will surprise him by speaking his own mother tongue. That's the dream.

Back in those days, I didn't know his language, and he didn't know mine. So what did we do? We spoke headless-legless English. You know the kind: "Come," "Go," "Eat," "Play"—all accompanied by dramatic body language that would put a mime artist to shame.


As the chick grew into a cock, I graduated from the Samtse College of Education. By then, I could speak Lhotsampakha here and there—enough to order food and perhaps insult someone.

My first posting was in 2005 at Tsirangtoe Lower Secondary School, Tsirang. It was both fortunate and unfortunate. Fortunate, because I was finally in a place where the majority of the population were Lhotsampas—a live laboratory for language learning. Unfortunate, because I had to live in a remote, windy, damp place that made my bones ache and my socks perpetually wet.

Anyway, I was eager to learn their language. If not master it, at least grab a few words and semantic orders by the throat. 



My students always knocked me out—and they continue to do so, even in my sleep. Their beguiling faces, naughty-dirty expressions, and rough-murky behaviors have a way of waking me up at 3 AM for no good reason.

This particular incident happened in what was probably my third class of the third chapter. I had jumped two chapters ahead to start with the easiest topic: domestic animals. Being a geography teacher, I was, of course, teaching geography. But that day, we talked about animals. I asked my students to name a few. They did, one by one.

Then I decided to go a little further—animals and their young ones. (A teacher always adds something extra to the topic. It adds to the teacher's persona and showcases his high erudition.)

"Cow-calf, pig-piglet, horse-foal, chicken-chick," I announced with academic pride.

The students burst into sudden, suspicious laughter.

"Chick," I repeated, sensing something was fishy.

The laughter continued, now with added snorts and elbow nudges.

"Chick!" I said again, playfully but louder.

By then, the giggles had spread like wildfire, and the girls began to bend their heads toward their desks as if searching for lost contact lenses.

"What's so funny about 'chick'? Do you know what 'chick' means?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"We know, sir," a faint voice shot up from the back.

"Sir, it's a dirty word," another student declared.

"What is it? I want to learn too," I said, innocence dripping from every syllable.

"Not in the class, sir," the class captain said firmly, as if guarding the gates of a national secret.


I pulled the captain aside after class.

"Sir," he said, shuffling his feet and looking at the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again, "it means… sleeping together… and having sex together, sir."

My jaw dropped. My eyebrows climbed into my hairline.

I had never imagined I would go that far. The word chick — innocent, feathery, barnyard chick — literally meant something else entirely in Lhotsampakha. Something that rhymes with duck. Something that should not be said in a classroom. Something that made me want to crawl under my desk and hibernate for a week.

I didn't go to that class for three days.

When I finally returned, I made a solemn promise to my students: "The word 'chick' is strictly banned from this classroom. Say 'baby chicken' or nothing at all."

From that day onward, my impatience to learn the Lhotsampa language waned considerably. Some lessons, after all, are learned the hard way — with red cheeks and a sudden urge to become a hermit.



Moral:

When learning a new language, always ask for the other meaning before opening your mouth. And never, ever teach domestic animals on a Monday.

The Trip

Yesterday, our class—along with three professors—visited three legendary temples in Belur, Halebeedu, and Shravanabelagola. The total journey was about 222 kilometers from Bangalore. It was a long ride, but worth every bump in the road.

These places house some of the most impressive historical temples I have ever seen. Every piece of art and architecture is carved from stone—massive boulders and the tiniest pebble-sized fragments alike—each revealing rich, intricate details. Thousands of different Indian inscriptions and motifs cover the surfaces like a stone encyclopedia no one can fully decode.

The monuments are nothing short of wonderful. They depict religious history, mosaic patterns, scenes of music and dance, and stories I could not stop staring at. The stone craftsmanship is so perfectly finished that it almost feels unreal.

I honestly doubt that any mere human mortal could have done this sculpturing. There is no question in my mind: gods and goddesses must have lent their hands. Another legend says that superpower kings erected these structures using resources and skills we have long forgotten. (I bought a travel guidebook to learn more—because my curiosity was bigger than my wallet.)

These temples were built around the 11th and 12th centuries, during the Indian Vedic periods. That is nearly a thousand years ago. And yet, here they stand—defying weather, war, and wear.

Every day, thousands of people visit these temples, both from within India and from every corner of the world. And after yesterday, I completely understand why.

I have taken several packs of photos of these museums and temples. Below are a few of them. After all, a picture speaks more than a thousand words—and my words are already tired from all that walking.

The view from the Shravanabelagola' s temple

Looks like Roman architecture-outside of the Shravanabelagola's temple

There are similar structures around

People moving up to see the inner sanctum

Stone monolithic stands rain or shine

Rock crafted statuettes

Inside the structures...

Statues stand high watching

Belur star-shaped temple

Monkeys like sculptors casted out of huge stones

Where are we to go now?

Rows of magnificent works 

Intricate stone edifices

Roman Colosseum building like

Belur busy temple

Towering temple in Belur

In between, we sneak out to see a dam nearby

This is Halebeedu, a small part of the temple 

There are many Buddha-like statues in all temples

Showing different motifs

Furious Lord

Depicting wars

I am the most handsome of all. Ha...ha...ha!!!

Singing Lords

And dancing Lords

Uh...ah...come on to the last photo

A kaleidoscope of Halebeedu's temple

And the last one isPhew...turn ur computer to see the magnificent colossal statue of Gommateshwar, which stands 58ft 8 inches and considered to be the world's largest monolithic stone statue. There are many stories attributed to this monolithic. You may Google it the easiest i think.

The Temple of Belur, Halebeedu, and Shravanabelagola are difficult to pronounce but very promising places to go. There are so many things to learn from those devoted pilgrimages and tourists, but not for a couple dating, supposedly…haha.

The, Long, and Other Dangerous Words

(Reader's Restriction: The humour below is intended only for a mature audience, as it contains suggestive language. The writing does not propagate or blame any language or culture—it merely laughs at the beautiful mess of cross-linguistic accidents.)

I was born into the complicated world of The and Long. Much as I have equipped myself with these phonetics over the years, I still find them devilishly difficult to pronounce. And sometimes I wonder: why on earth do these two words—sounding so painfully similar—have such wildly different meanings depending on which language you're standing in?

The and Long can contort faces. They can strike fear into the hearts of a certain group of people in Bhutan—especially us Sharchokpas. Whenever I have to use these innocent English words, I deploy them with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. A peculiar American the (with that soft, rolling thhhh) sounds very close to our brother's slang for a certain part of the male anatomy. And don't get me wrong—I love a distinct American accent. But before I utter these English words, I glance around nervously. Left. Right. Behind. If there are rowdies nearby, I swallow the word whole. Otherwise, we might end up in a long, uncomfortable "guff" talk about nothing in particular—using nothing but these accidental slangs.

I have developed some uneasy, neurotic hunches about using these two Bhutanese slangs in front of my students—especially my Sharchokpa students. (Though let's be honest: everyone knows these slangs now. Ngalops, Lhotsampas, the person next door—all of them.) The worst part? These hesitant, dangerous words often slip out unnoticed, aimed at the wrong people. But I teach in an English-speaking classroom. Surely I shouldn't be blamed for speaking English. Right? 

In one of my classes, the students had grown bored after a series of dull lectures. They asked me about my free time. "We have a long class, sir," they said. "We want to enjoy long now."

I froze. Were my students making fun of the word long? Or was this mockery directed at me for using it so often? "To enjoy the long?" I flashed a small, nervous smile and continued. "Thus, we will have a long break then."

"Yes, thus, thus," some naughty students chimed in. Then they twisted their mouths weirdly and pronounced the word thus as t(h)ues—at which point the girls buried their faces in their desks for an uncomfortably long time.

No problem. I was gently forced out of the classroom after exchanging some quick, guilty laughter with the mischievous boys.

For those who have not yet had the pleasure of this cultural revelation:

· Long and The (when spoken in a certain Sharchokpa-accented way) are highly derogatory terms for the male organ. 

· And thus—if mispronounced with a slight lisp or a misplaced tongue—can refer to the female organ.

So there I was, a geography teacher, accidentally turning a grammar lesson into an anatomy lesson. I don't recall that being in my job description.

These days, I try to substitute the word long with any number of synonyms: lengthy, extensive, elongated, prolonged, stretched-out-like-a-rubber-band. You name it, I've tried it. But for small children in school, long must remain long—just long. And the must remain the.

But here's the tragedy: these two words are also among the most offensive utterances one can make in Bhutan when angry or utterly hopeless. So the same sound that a toddler uses to describe a snake can also start a fistfight. The same sound that a grandmother uses to say "the house" can also get you expelled from a family gathering.

The and long are among the most commonly used words in the English language. And I must use them every single day. God help me. God help my students. God help the poor soul who has to sit next to me during school concert.

Take care, and… THE LONG goodbye. See you next time—preferably without any accidental slangs.