Buncoing Buyers

Bangalore is said to be one of the most expensive metropolises in India and is home to millions. It's a hustle-and-bustle city. Everything is lively, and there is no dearth of anything. You name it, you'll get it. What matters is money—and lots of it. There is no shortage of anything, and people want it all: goods, transport, multi-cuisine restaurants, cheaters (Indian cheaters and buncos—difficult to trust anyone, be they poor or rich, low or high; they only want money), fruits, everything. People want it, and they get it. Anytime. Anywhere.

Here in Bangalore, everything sells like hotcakes. You may walk into the smallest shop and be surprised to see it buzzing with customers. And the climax of the story is in the big malls, where dashing and pushing make shopping feel like a contact sport. A little bit of monkey business is everyone's daily cup of tea.

Today, I bought 1 kg of mangoes for 40 rupees. It's mango season here—different types: round, small, big, sweet, sour. You name it, it's there. I don't care about the names of mangoes; their lushness and sweetness are all I mind. After buying a kilo, I went to the next vendor, who willingly offered me the same size and the same "brand" for 30 rupees. I was buncoed. Such a gig. They would sell out everything for money, including their own grandmothers if priced correctly.

The reason things sell like hotcakes in Bangalore is the large population. Mind you, during rush hours, people look like ants—determined, countless, and surprisingly good at elbowing you. Besides that, there is a mixed population from all over the world. One thing I've noticed, though, is that merchants in Bangalore are very lazy. The reason may be that too many customers keep them fed up with work. When you have a thousand people fighting for your attention, I suppose you stop trying too hard.

Back in Bhutan, my sister has a small shop. It was located in Denchi, Pema Gatshel. She told me she bought things for sale only to watch them expire. There were no buyers. Recently, losing hope, she shifted her shop from Denchi to her village. "Is it better?" I asked. "I am hoping, but now it's worse than before," she told me worriedly. I mentioned to her that this hope and expectation would lead her to poverty. I hope she understands. But hope, as we know, is a dangerous thing in business.

In Bhutan, we have a dearth of people and therefore fewer buyers. Our population is scattered, separated by valleys and mountains. A handful of people live in each valley, and most of them are self-sufficient. Good for them—self-sufficiency is a blessing. But the flip side is that we produce very little. And if we had to depend on shops like they do in Bangalore, we would have little source of money to buy anything. So maybe the ants and the hotcakes are not such a bad thing after all. At least the mangoes are cheaper. Well, sometimes.

Money Speak the Truth

Money speaks. And it tells tales about anyone—loud and clear.

Who says money can't buy happiness? I have seen people drowning without money, and sadness was all they had. I have seen lovers drift apart. I have seen friends disappear when the wallet went empty. I have seen people remain alone and desolate. I have seen families turning into devils. I have seen men breaking stones. I have seen people nearing suicide. I have seen people dying without treatment. I have seen children hiding under beds to eat sweets. I have seen men racing for prizes. I have seen lamas pretending to be the perfect of all. I have seen students memorizing texts. And I have seen them all—working tirelessly. All for money.

And I have also seen men buying happiness. I have seen men driving cars with all smiles. I have seen people changing home furnishings every other season. I have seen the sick hospitalized in the world's top-class hospitals. I have seen men buying everything without asking for a discount. I have seen men changing wives like they change garments—seasonally, and often without much thought. I have seen men bribing to speed up their work. I have seen lies turning into truth. I have seen people traveling to Hong Kong, New York, Paris, London. I have seen people talking about buying entire countries. And I have seen them—enjoying it all from money. Selfishly.

I know, and I know like everyone else, that money can't buy life. But why need a life devoid of happiness? Why need a life of poverty and suffering? The answer a man always seeks from God, but the answer lies with the man himself. What an answer? The man.

A man cannot agree upon hard work when the haves and have-nots are simply divided by a bridge. Having grown up and spent a quarter of my life in an isolated and backward hamlet, I have seen people accumulating Chetrum by Chetrum to feed their growing families. I have seen parents fighting the sun and rain in the fields. I have seen them selling cash crops to afford education. I have seen every part of this maddening life. (That is a story for another day.)

On the other hand, people born with a silver spoon eat silver and live golden lives. Happy and lucky. I was in secondary standard when a classmate told us that he traveled frequently to Bangkok, and his next destination would be Hong Kong. Some of us could not even reach the Hong Kong market in Thimphu. Such was his life. A jealous teacher then asked him how many plates of rice he ate in a meal. He replied: only one plate. The teacher stated that he also ate only one plate of rice per meal. Such was the farcical, satirical remark. Such was the fate of a rich boy.

Now I see many people settling abroad and studying all over the world—America, Australia, Britain. Like cows spreading across a forest, they have scattered everywhere. I wish I had money. I would fulfill my honey dream of visiting rollicking America. Visit only. Otherwise, those conceited Americans might say, "Why does everyone like America?" That is utter nonsense. My motherland is the best and the homeliest place to stay. On the other hand, I have seen hundreds of Americans embracing other countries so lovingly. It's wicked and wrong for Americans to think that people only like to come to their country, while they can visit anywhere they like. Anyway, if I stay too long that far from my place, diaspora feelings would start to shake my roots.

And like a dog returning to its owner's house after a day's search for shit, I would be back in my village. Just as William Wordsworth desired to be with nature—to eat and defecate, not floundering in the air, nowhere to belong. Home is where the hurt is. And the first hurt, the first cut, is the deepest. And that cut—that cut is the loveliest of all.

THERE WAS…

There is not a star that shines for me.

There were some—

when they shone beside me.

Now the darkness enfolds.

Sometimes I think

I've no star left in the sky.

There is not a flower that moves me.

There were some—

when they appealed to my eyes and senses.

Now the thorns prick.

I live all my days hurt.

There is not a place that keeps me upright.

There was a place—

that kept me neat and cheered me fresh.

Now the four walls crush me.

Sometimes I think

I've no place left to live on this earth.

There is not an iota of happiness.

There was happiness—

that honed and exhilarated my mind and senses.

Now the sadness dulls everything.

Sometimes I feel

I've no way to regain happiness.

There is not a person who loves me.

There were some—

who showered me with love.

Now they ebb like fluorescent light.

I've no voice of love left.

There is no hope that keeps me going.

There was some—

that furthered my strength.

Now the dope of despair has conquered.

I've no life to lead.

There is not a mind to live a life.

There was one—

that busied my life to become a success.

Now, having understood this transitory life,

I've no meaning to understand better.

There is no longing for the world.

There was one—

when I had your love.

I was flying higher than heaven.

Now look at me—

I cannot imagine this mighty fall.

There is no easy way to get love.

There was one I had—

that kept my love as love.

Now the hatred surrounds.

How easy it is to fall in love,

and how hard to stay there.

There is no feeling left for writing lines.

There were feelings—

that carried me to a fool's paradise.

Now my pen snugs between my fingers,

and my feelings melt at the tip of the nib.

Piper's note: The poem may go on and on… lookin' for emerald green lights and open doors in life.

Hollywood <>+=-?<>Bollywood and then to Drukpawood

Bhutanese take pride in three things: religion, culture, and tradition. These often come to the rescue of our identity and nationalism whenever intellectual debates arise from outside.

As a proud and real Bhutanese, I want my youth to absorb as much of Bhutanese culture as possible. But as luck would have it, none of the youth today show much interest in religion, culture, or tradition.

However, being a subservient son of Bhutan has its own perils. When I was thirteen, I watched Gasa Lamai Singye with my friends. It was Bhutan's first movie. To be honest, it was not about religion, culture, or tradition—it was about human bonds: a love triangle. There were a few fights (dishoom-dishoom) and some songs. The movie moved some of us to want to be like the heroes, and it entered our juvenile brains. It was no traditional or cultural film, I remember.

Today, when I look back at those days, a sense of nostalgia takes over. I can still recall the flicks of that movie. It marked the emergence of filmmaking in the country. I am not a Bhutanese movie buff. I watched Gasa Lamai Singye simply because there was no television at that time. Now, I am a type of "Wood"—Hollywood and Bollywood. I have watched only about seven Bhutanese movies so far. Therefore, I find Bhutanese movies a little un-Bhutanese: tactless, amateurish, sluggish, and predictable. They are all copycats. Bollywood copies Hollywood, Hollywood copies Bollywood, other "woods" copy each other, and then it trickles down to Drukpawood. Our Drukpawood is a mixed masala of all the Woods. Filmmakers think it will become a delicious emadatshi—and that because of this tasty emadatshi, our Drukpawood could match international standards. So we copy. But otherwise, it is the same commonly tasted flavor. Our Dzongkha is becoming Dzonglish. Anyway, let us consider this: Fiji, a country smaller than Bhutan, produces some of the world's best movies.

Most of our Bhutanese movies do not depict the rich history of our country—its historical background and traditions. We had so many Penlops, Deps, legends, myths, and folktales that could be made into very good films. For example, the legend of Ling Gesar Gyap, Zhabdrung and his Dzongs, and many others could become beautiful movies. But nowadays—yes, nowadays—we live in a floating world. So we see in our movies flashy cars, immaculate houses, decked-up ladies in tatters, fancy mood lighting—all flesh and bones—and it is difficult to understand what is being portrayed and why.

Some film directors look like rocky rock. Take Tshering Wangyel, for instance—his girlish hair and the blackest spectacles. Whatever he may be, people love his direction and his films.

Photo credit: Facebook (

Bhutanese movies are very much threaded in misery and a weepy kind of life, with few sparkling moments of joy that bring a smile to the viewer's face. The scene in which Phurba Thinley tries to behave like a woman gives little guffaws, or the westernized musical party where kids gather, dance, and sing "Nga Chelu Ga, Che NgaLu Ga" or a "ting-a-ling-ling" song. Otherwise, there is no striking moment in the movie. Consider the scene where Singlam and Galam go to see their old ruined house and break apart; or the cruel mother-in-law, Aum Lamo, who crushes the head of the hero's girlfriend and thrashes her against the wall; or the scenes of heroes running through poverty and dejection—usually because of the lady they love—gripping lives, until finally they understand each other's hearts, come together, and start a new life, which succeeds within a minute of screen time. Most of the time, the films tighten the knots of brutal and faithless life, making audiences—especially Bhutanese women—believe their own lives are just like the films.

Films must excite, startle, thrill, and shake viewers. These effects cannot be produced by a play that lacks conflict. The conflict in a movie may be between human beings pulling in different directions, between a character and the environment he finds himself in, or the society of which he is a member. Movies must generally represent human suffering, which raises pity and fear among audiences and makes them decide that the film is great in its tragic appeal. The misfortune in the film should be simple and straightforward, but sublime and universal in its penetrative appeal.

A good film, by my judgment, should represent human suffering, evoke fear and pity, use embellished language, and have an emotional or cathartic appeal. Above all, it should educate, entertain, and inform. There are two views on the tragic vision of life. One is that man is the plaything of an inscrutable power called fate. The other is that character is responsible for the tragic end. In Greek tragedies, the tragic fate of the heroes is predetermined. Oedipus and Antigone become obstinate and tyrannical. Their tragedy comes from their overconfidence in their respective attitudes.

Though films portray the antinomies of our lives, the majority of our viewers take them as reality. Because of this, films should touch on various themes and issues—not only love failures, which dominate most of our Bhutanese films. Films must also represent history, contemporary Bhutanese society, roles, changing relationships, and educate viewers about the morals of faith and believing.