A Noiseless, Patient Spider

A Noiseless, Patient Spider

                                                                  -Walt Whitman

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

 

The above poem is one of my favorites. It is short, yet it carries multi-faceted meanings. The poem describes a spider that is noiseless, patient, and isolated—unbothered by the world around it—as it works on its web. It is engaged in the most uncertain kind of hard work: trying to shoot out countless tiny filaments ceaselessly, patiently, and tirelessly, hoping that one of them will stick to something.

Similarly, we ceaselessly muse, venture, and seek throughout our lives to achieve the heights of enlightenment and to find the meaning of life. But we often get obstructed, tired, bogged down, and bothered by the world that surrounds us. We must learn all kinds of super-perseverance from this creepy little creature.

This poem is not only about a spider. Whitman tells us that the spider is a metaphor for the human soul, which also explores and tries to connect. He describes the vulnerability of the soul in this vast realm of existence and tries to find ways to accommodate the soul—to find a place for it among the rest of the soul-filled world. Hence the references to venturing, seeking, and connecting in this measureless ocean of space. Through the use of vivid imagery and figurative language (specifically metaphor), Whitman portrays a deeper human emotion.

In essence, the poem speaks about hard work, exploration, spirituality, and the relationship between man and the natural world.

Dzongkha Lopens

One of the weirdest kinds of people we encounter in life is our Dzongkha Lopens. They have a very special, trademark way of misbehaving and dealing with people. And they tease girls like anything! One can only dream of female Dzongkha Lopens behaving the same way toward boys. But let me tell you—they are timidly naughty too. Though looked upon as the upholders of good ethics and the chief discipliners of the school, they themselves are utterly breakers of all those rules. Their disorderliness and unruliness are, ironically, the order of the day. They seem to act very strict—smacking or beating students—but they are not really so. I say this now with regret: I would have climbed on their heads if I had known this back in my school days. Sometimes, their personalities can be the worst of any humankind. They occasionally act as if they are the only people on earth.

I was disciplined by so many Dzongkha Lopens. One Lopen in Pemagatshel Junior School was known as Lopen Goenpo Lhudrup (a nickname), because he used to tell us the story of Goenpo Lhudrup every single time. The story interested us so much that we felt almost sleepy in class. Lopen Goenpo Lhudrup also had a habit of drinking before coming to class. In his drunken, sleepy state, he used to ask us to pluck his beard hairs. The smell of alcohol alone made us feel depleted. But we were not as stupid as Goenpo Lhudrup thought. Some of us took out the sharpest pins from our Lhagay and pierced his chin. The Lopen stood up grunting. Tiny drops of blood oozed from his face. Stunned, he left. For that entire year, the Lopen never again asked the class to pluck his beard. Lesson learned? Possibly. Possibly not.

Lopens, especially Dzongkha Lopens, are heavy drinkers. Let's call one Mr. X from Darla MSS (name withheld to protect the not-so-innocent). Mr. X revolves his life around drinks and women. Lopens are usually not good womanizers—they lack the patience for sweet talk and waiting—but they are indisputably good at drinking. They just jump to conclusions with many contacts on forbidden parts of the body. But Mr. X, once he drinks, becomes wild. The word "shame" does not exist in his dictionary. He speaks about whatever he likes. He moves around carefree. He dances on the stage-less stage. He becomes one with the universe and thinks he dominates the world. Such is the height of his self-perception.

One day, I asked him why he was so desperate that he behaved like a dog. The response Mr. X gave was even worse than a dog's bark. It was somewhat like a cat's meow. "Don't just catch rats," he said. I guessed what he really meant: one should do everything in life. The cat must not sleep quietly near the fire and wait for rats. The cat must behave like a mouse, like a bird—move around all the holes. That was absolutely true, I realized. Mr. X was right. Deep, disturbing, and right.

With the change of time, our Lopens have changed a great deal. Lopens, who are supposedly responsible and the exponents of the Dzongkha language, have become passionate fans of English. The twists of their mouths and their attempts at different accents have made English more popular in school than Dzongkha. I have seen Mr. X communicating and making fun of his own English accent right from the morning with colleagues. In this way, Dzongkha is forgotten by our own Dzongkha Lopens. I remember Lopens translating almost everything into English just to make their lessons understandable. It seems like they are giving more importance to English than to the subject they were hired to teach. 

Our Dzongkha Development Commission (DDC) has done nothing to upgrade Dzongkha. English-enthusiast Dzongkha Lopens will one day speak "Dzonglish"—a glorious mixture of Dzongkha and English that nobody fully understands. The DDC must promote Dzongkha learning through fun ways. It should loosen its grip on fixed phonologies, words, grammar, and all that heavy stuff, and make the language easier—like English. Our Dzongkha Lopens are sometimes tough on silly little mistakes, which demotivates learners tremendously. Mr. X, for example, has only one word for maize: Gayza. Such limited vocabulary! Why not a:shome? Is variety a crime?

In short, dear Lopens: we love you. We fear you. We smell the alcohol on you. And we still can't conjugate verbs properly. But at least we can laugh about it now.

Note: The above article is based on the memories and observations of the author and is not intended to hurt anyone implicitly or explicitly—especially some of our dedicated Lopens. If you are a Lopen and feel offended, please don't pluck my beard. I don't have one.

Atheist Or Pantheist

Our classes were supposed to start two weeks ago. But many friends are arriving late—very late, indeed—so we've had no classes for two weeks. Which means I have been doing absolutely nothing productive in this period. I have been sleeping, watching movies, writing, and downloading notes for the semester that I will probably never read. And most of the time, I have been roving and wandering around like a lost tourist with no map and no purpose.

But where can I go? Everywhere I go, traffic noises dumb me down and dump me at times. Take Majestic, Bangalore for example. There is nothing majestic about Majestic—except the continuous drone of traffic and noise. Everywhere. Malls are fascinating, though, if you enjoy window shopping and pretending you can afford things.

Majestic is far from my place. About the same distance as between Gedu and Phuntsholing—which is to say, far enough to question your life choices. It is the center of all routes: buses, trains, and people. Transport facilities are all available here—buses, rickshaws, autos, jeeps, cars, and soon a metro train is in the pipeline. But of all, bus transportation is cheap and reliable. The only catch? It takes more than two hours to reach Majestic. The fare is only 13 rupees. But if you don't have change and give 20 rupees, the conductor may write your "balance" on the back of the ticket—in invisible ink, apparently. And if you don't ask for it while getting off, they won't bother to give it. That's their business model. As my friend told me, every single Indian is a cheater. So be it—if you have a loaded pocket. (I don't.)

On the way, because of traffic jams and frequent stops, you get to see scenes around. And what a picture it is: pollution and vehicle noises. Huge numbers of people everywhere. People walking, people eating, people working. Everyone is busy. You would lose yourself in the crowd. Actually, you would lose your will to live, but that's a different essay.

As I walked around, I looked around and thought about life. Everything is ephemeral and subject to death. The transitory life is moving fast—seemingly purposeful, but everything is meaningless. It is empty and as useless as a chocolate teapot. Everyone aims at aimless, hollow things. In the end, it looks like everything has great weight and meaning, but we have no effect on substantial things. This saddens me. It saddens me to think about leaving the world. Where is there a crueler life than this? Having seen and known everything, then going to the unknown world of darkness. Depressing? Yes.

So I recite mantras. My counts are in the millions. It was said there is a light side after death if the count reaches three or four million. But note: I never pray for myself. I pray for others—for other sentient beings, ignorant people like me, to bring them close to heaven. I believe in all religions. People sadly call me an atheist or a follower of Christianity or such types. It's not good to talk about religion. It's a personal thing anyway, that's my feeling.

My own family accused me when I took very lightly to our religious beliefs—especially the customs and traditions of rituals, offerings, and the deep reverence toward some of the fake Lamas and religious people. I told them one day: I hate monks. I have seen and heard monks engaging in deadly and horrific affairs—murder, rape, and other misconducts. They know the consequences of sins, and yet they do all these horrible things that go against the canons and principles of religion. I have encountered a man who knows everything about religion and nothing about the basics of life—like doing good and being good.

Deep inside me, I sometimes think I have a heart of butter. Soft, melts easily, and terrible in hot weather. And a heart as good as gold—though gold doesn't melt, so maybe I have a hybrid heart. I have basic human rules in my mind. I have compassion and think good of others. I never engage in unsocial or hurtful things. I mean well and don't affect anyone badly. I have two beliefs in my heart: being compassionate and doing good. I have no intention to hurt others through lies or working only for my own benefit. I don't like to show off.

But there are outsiders who act religious on the outside and do everything for their own benefit. They don't care about others' hearts. Very hurtful people. Such a disguise to our religion. If God is watching, I hope He has a good sense of humor. Because frankly, He needs one.

We Never Say Goodbye

Last time I parted from my beloved family, my friend told me that it's always hard to say goodbye. He was right—it really was. But then I started wondering: why does English have such an aching, miserable, heart-wrenching word as "goodbye"? It sounds like something you say at a funeral, or when you're dropping someone off at the airport and secretly relieved it's not you leaving.

I don't feel like using it. And I never have. Not once. Not even in dramatic moments.

"We never say goodbye," I told my friend proudly. "We don't even have a word for it. I just tell them to stay well and that I will see them again."

He looked confused. I looked enlightened. It was a good moment.

Truly, as per my dictionary—which lives mostly in my head and is occasionally wrong—two major Bhutanese languages, Dzongkha and Sharchop, don't have a word for goodbye. Not one. Zero. Zilch. We don't believe in goodbyes. We believe in coming back. We believe in reincarnation. Why say goodbye when you might come back as your own neighbor's dog and bark at your former self?

"We only part to meet again," said John Gay. And John Gay clearly never had a bad breakup.

We have Kuzuzangpo for hello. But this greeting is used regardless of the time of day—morning, noon, midnight, or 3 AM when you run into someone at a convenience store buying instant noodles. This means Bhutanese people believe time is the same and should remain the same throughout life. No good morning. No good evening. Just Kuzuzangpo. Simple. Efficient. Time-proof. In Sharchop, there's no "good evening" or "good morning" either. We just wake up and Kuzuzangpo our way through life like time doesn't exist. And honestly? Less stress.

We have Kadrinchhe for thank you—which we say often, especially after momos. But for parting, we say Lashom bay joen if the person is leaving, which literally means "go nicely" (please don't fall into a ditch). And Lashom bay shug if the person is staying, which means "stay well" (please don't burn the house down). Neither means goodbye. They just mean "survive until I see you again."

In Sharchop, we use Tshingai rumey na, which actually means "see you in the future." No sadness. No finality. Just a casual assumption that the future will happen and we will be in it. Together. Possibly older, possibly grayer, but definitely eating.

So I never say goodbye to my loved ones. I refuse. I boycott the word like it owes me money. I say only Lagpan choina—stay well—believing with all my heart that we will meet again. In this life. In the next life. Or at least at the next family gathering with free food.

And if we don't? Well, then I'll see you in the next round. Save me a seat.

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