Over Beautiful, Over Dirty

My classmate who had dropped the school after attending the sixth standard was in my car. Karpola was his name. He had his own dark flashback in his life. He was coming for the first time to Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan. All his life, he was married to his village, Labar, Pema Gatshel. He had been sweating over to keep his dependents alive. Doing farming, carrying heavy loads, and living in the dark home as much for his dark face in contrast to his name Karpola, which means white, he was living a mundane dark life. The main reason for dropping his studies was financial problems. Over and above, he was living with his old stepfather, who was an alcoholic, and bet his mother over again and over again. He had to take over everything as the sole survival for his mother falls over him. But for me, I had studied and had a job now. We met after seven or so years. My parents’ house was on one lone hill and his over the lone hill. We were not overnight friends but infant friends. On having talked, he agreed to go for the break from what he said, ‘over cowly life’ in the village to Thimphu with me. Visiting Thimphu was his life’s dream and this could be his dream. He was bubbling over with excitement.

We traveled one of the longest journeys, and most of the time he slept inside the car being ill from dizziness. On the way, he over and again said, “You overdrive.” But I overruled him, 50-60 kms/hr was overall an average speed. On nearing Thimphu’s city, we washed our faces fresh and I asked him to be watchful of his dreamland. To had a better view of Thimphu, I drove him from the Semtokha road. He opened his mouth, his tongue was stuck out as he ran his eyes over every corner of valleys, down the big lane; hundreds of cars pass by, hundreds of crowded buildings. He pushed out, “Oh, over cars, more than cows in my village.” i laughed. We just then cross Lungtenphug and saw the whole face of Thimphu. He looked at the city with his poking eyes; he craned his neck through the car’s window. He looked arrestingly overwhelmed. “This is over beautiful.” He noised in the air. “You have misused preposition, we say, the most beautiful.” I laughed and corrected him. “Anyway, this is over beautiful,” he muttered. “We can see this place very beautiful from the outside, let us check inside,” I fawned over. I liked to lord it over my friend. We entered the town; we pulled over to the side and parked the car at the side of the road. Now the man from the uptown world was roaming the downtown world. We reached over the farmer’s market, I tried to paper over the cracks, but he had a habit of drooling over every nook and corner of the market and that was where he got petrify, somewhat allergic to his dream. He had clouded over his face. The shift of scene had cast a shadow over him. “This is over dirty. Beautiful buildings, clean people, clean cars but over dirty drains, over smelly, over wrappers, over papers whatnot all over the places.” He did me over as if I had handover this. I once again corrected with some sense of responsibility and shame of the place I was fussing over, “You can say dirty...”

My far cousin lived in Changjiji. We slept over for some days while I had my spinning administrative works in the Education Ministry. Karpola seeing all kinds of people in the place felt happy to mix in the mixture. I wanted him to experience a city’s life. One night, we went over with a bang to be a part of a discotheque. We saw gangs of youth drunk, hauling over the coals, and soon breaking out into a fight. “This is over dangerous,” he cried. I lost my words. My intention was to show him another side of life; comfort, beautiful, and internally peaceful co-existence but it turned all over. Karpola habituated use of ‘over’ put me in thinking.

The other night, I lied down on my bed and mulled over the word ‘over.’ I doubled over with a hearty laugh thinking over it. But this wasn’t a laughing matter. Was it? I came up with so many reasons for the word ‘over.’ One could look externally very beautiful but dirty interior. The word between ‘over’ and ‘normal’ was like having two faces of a person. Everything overly over is bad. Over and over trying makes success.

After a week’s stay, he decided to go to his home because he had a sort of hangover for his village. “My village is over normal.” He seemed to be head over heels in love with his countryside. I drew a veil over the subject. Karpola’s eyes glazed over as if he was over and done with Thimphu’s vigor. He got over with his dream, a rather betray dream and he went to his village. I didn’t think he would be happy to spill over the news of his visit to his village mates. I reached him to the bus station while I had to return the next morning to Gedu.

Everything

An enrapture piece of mind

Surrounded by happiness today

My mind

So much transported and euphoric

Entirely contented

In this heaven like earth

My angel here;

In front of me today

I wish every day

To be

My birth here was happy

And luckier

To meet you

No wealth is desirable than you

The wealth of having you

Is the wealth I treasure?

No wealth can substitute you

My faithful lover

You will take through the life

Ups and down

And I thank you

and never forget

for fulfilling my dream

My only wish

is to keep you happy

the above god and goddess

wish us

with mindfulness of happiness

and feelings of consideration

to my heaven sent lover

Wish with no ills and troubles

Because I care you more than any wealth in the world.

Note: This poem is the very rough adaptation of Bardo’s song.

Lama Rinpochea

Dungse Thinley Norbu Rinpoche (1931-2011) was an influential modern Buddhist teacher in the lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, and patron of the Vajrayana Foundation. He was the eldest son of Dudjom Rinpoche, the former head of the Nyingma lineages, and also the father of Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche and Garab Rinpoche, known for his Theorma Tshogpa. He wrote many books on Buddhism including ‘White Sail: Crossing the Waves of Ocean Mind to the Serene Continent of the Triple Gems.’ Dungse passed away in America and his Kudhung(body) was brought to Bhutan. His Kudhung was kept for the wellbeing of Bhutanese people for a month. I was there in Paro( Lango) when his Kudhung was put on fire. Thousands of devotees gathered, it was said there were more than 20-30 thousand people. Some as early as 2am in the morning came to occupy the place as near as possible. Those who came late have to parch on the caves and rugged terrain. Buddhists believes, Rinpoche was the incarnation of Guru Rinpoche. Below are the photos were taken on Mechay’s day.



In the darkness, shines through Rinpoche's Kudung



Sanctuary in the sanctum







Have a close look, who is he? Politics in religion

Ah…oh wondering minstrel

Taking kudung in a Bhutanese procession

Swapping body into smoke, an evanescent of life. Many people cried at this time. It was an emotionally poignant moment.

People rising up to inhale the smoke and to show veneration

This is how rich people misuse the space-the good space while people have to parch on the rocks and in the trees.

Smoky to be on fire

Many Neljorpas tents camped around the place

On the way back home the famous Paro Dzong stands rain or shines for hundreds of years. My son’s son would be fortunate enough to see the same Dzong. I said this to my son and he unhappily said to me that I will turn into smoke and disappear. My heart broke apart for sometimes to tear away especially from my beloved people and the earth. But who am I? The great Rinpoche has the same fate.

Forget the dying for now. Live now or never, I told my family. So, we mingle in the tingling town in Paro town for some time. It really is a tingling town, the prices of the things made our head tingle. Those non-eating chilies Chilips tourists have inflated by buying of no use things.

The next day, we went to Phuntsholing to have gracing and blessing from Lam Chime. Lam Chime resides in Sikkim and is the main leader of Theorma Tshogpa in Bhutan. Lam is living for his devotees at this die-able age with his wife. Not all photos were clear and I think it was the cognizant nature of Lama to blur his image for an errant person like me!

And the wheel of the life rolls on and on...and kick the bucket unknown known, unlike Lama rinpoche.

The Value of Crown’s head

I am not an economist and I even don’t know the monetary system in the country. I can only count the cash but the financial crisis or the financial crunch is new to me. My economic teacher taught me when supply and demand do not match inflation and deflation happen. I think this is true in every aspect of our life. When boys outnumbered girls, there are demands from girls. Similarly, when production doesn’t match with market value there is inflation. Now, what the hell is with the Indian rupee and Bhutanese Ngultrum. In border towns like Jaigoan, Samdrupjongkha, etc, the rupee has become scarcer than kidney patient looking for kidney donor, and on the other hand, Ngultrum is just stacks of papers in the hands of merchants.
In this crisis, I walked downtown to experience its affect and effect and to believe it myself. I stopped in a shirt shop to buy a shirt. I intentionally wanted to give the shopkeeper a shock by showing a bundle of Bhutanese notes. After fixing the price at nu. 250/- I took out Bhutanese notes but the salesperson's sudden crafty look at me was an answer to me. He repulsively said he doesn’t accept BC and he demanded IC and if I have to pay BC, I have to pay 300, that is 50 extra. He also said to my ears that if I bring an IC of 1lakh, he would exchange and give me an extra ten thousand BC. I was wondering whether the barter system was creeping in and if it was so, paper cash was thoroughly useless as it didn’t have value. I just blindly agreed that I would try and this trying would be not trying at all, as recently a policeman was caught red-handed for exchanging IC with BC at a higher rate. That policeman was red-handed by the shamus. I have a feeling that when it comes to money it would be the first from the law upholder to become a violator or lawbreaker. I laughed at this joke. I have heard Bhutanese people are making big business with this crisis. I remember my father saying to me, “When one bull falls, another rises.” My brother, who is a banker told me that we Bhutanese are real bulls to do business that would affect one’s country gravely. I didn’t understand him. I am thick-headed on this matter. Anyway, trade value or exchange value in the bordering town is 100 IC for 120 BC and it may rise. The value of the crown’s head is losing under the lion’s head. On the other hand, the government pays five percent on GoI facility and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facility.
I popped in my old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments; I was there in his shop after three years (after these three years because I bought seven different garments from his shop at one shopping that would last for more than two years. The seven garments I bought from his shop made him crazy that would develop into a sort of underwear friend, and now…now…now I realized that have I really been economical to spend so much on small garments at one go. It was buying two cars when only a car is in need). He greeted me warmly to shoot me about the rupees crisis. “Who am I to control,” I asked myself. I said that the government is discussing it and it will be solved soon. After some blab…blabs. He friendly warned me that Bhutanese are great spendthrift and spend without any saving. I asked about how much money he gets every day from Bhutanese customers and his reply were astonishing when he says that he gets about ten thousand or more every day. His was a small shop and if small shops like his could get so much amount, what about others. There is little or nothing that Bhutan exports but it only imports a great deal. 90 percent is imported from India, going money outside and especially border areas are flooded with Ngultrums. He had the same story that he needs IC to roll his business and like other businesspeople, he said in the name of friendship he would give me better exchange than others would. I will try was a good reply that wouldn’t hurt him.

Bhutan’s financial institutions like BOB, BNB, etc have closed all loan schemes to curbed the crisis. Analyst says that it is a temporary measure but the recent talk by prime minister’s representative Lyonpo Yeshey Zimba was a scary one, who says that Bhutan would be reducing the size of the developmental plan/budget in the next Five Year Plan. Is this a good way of solving the crisis? The present ruling party mustn’t only buy up for their own homes but for the country’s good also.  

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.

Animals like Leaves

Below is my favorite song from the Savage Garden, ‘The Animal Song’ from the album ‘Affirmation.’ The song seeks freedom from this intricate world. Playfully I have distorted the song. Though flavor of rhymes, rhythms and meters are lost, still it looks funny to read after reading the original.

Original Song

When superstars and cannonballs are running through your head
the television freak show cops and robbers everywhere
Subway makes me nervous, people pushing me too far
I've got to break away
So take my hand now

Cause I want to live like animals
Careless and free like animals
I want to live
I want to run through the jungle
the wind in my hair and the sand at my feet

I've been having difficulties keeping to myself
Feelings and emotions better left up on the shelf
Animals and children tell the truth, they never lie
Which one is more human
There's a thought, now you decide

Compassion in the jungle
Compassion in your hands
Would you like to make a run for it
Would you like to take my hand

Cause I want to live like animals
Careless and free like animals
I want to live
I want to run through the jungle
the wind in my hair and the sand at my feet

Sometimes this life can get you down
It's so confusing
There's so many rules to follow
And I feel it
'Cause I just run away in my mind

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Distorted Song

When supermalls and cancan dances are drooling in your head
the telephone is the way of life everywhere
suborning and making me devious, poppa, fuss me off afar
I’m wrecking slowly away

So take me where no hand reaches.

Cause I want a leaf  like by animals
Cushy and free for many centennials
I want a leaf
I want to run without a leaf bungle
the wine with the leaves is the saint to me.

I've been having diathesis keeping to myself
Seeing and motions buttress me to shave
Animals and leaves tell me truth, they  are my recipe
Which one is more gourmand
There's a trough, now can reside.

Compulsion is the bungle
Dirty composition is in my heart
Would you like to make a one for me
Would you like to try my hand.

Cause I want a leaf  like by animals
Cushy and free for many centennials
I want a leaf
I want to run without a leaf bungle
the wine with the leaves is the saint to me.

Sometimes this life is duress durn 

It's so effusing 

obsessively rule out 

And I’m fed up with these books

So run away openly, just what my mind says.

Where is the happiness without the sadness?

Where is the happiness without the sadness?

Where is the sympathy without the deprivation?

Where is the care without the carelessness?

Where is the love without the hate?

Where is the success without the malfunction?

Where is the life without the death?

Where is the truth without the lie?

Where is the god without the devil?

Where is the ‘you’ without ‘I’?

Where is the belief without the unbelief?

Where is the heaven without the evil?

Where is the stress without the relief?

Where is the hope without the fear?

Where is the tree without the shoot?

Where is the month without the year?

Where is the man without the woman?

Where is the baby without the boot?

Where is the carriage without the cabman?

Where are the answers for all these questions?

For the questions are like oceans

And these are the captions

And these are subjects of books;

Where? What? Why? Who? How… fill oceans?

Where men ponder to it hooks.

The above nonsense and humorous poem is something like ‘where is the choice in the jail.’  As we know, lock up is mean to break out but life has no choice to be with this.  It’s in the heart, in the soul where lies the reasons of all-the sense.