Over Beautiful, Over Dirty

My classmate who had dropped out of school after sixth standard was sitting in my car. Karpola was his name. Yes, Karpola—which means "white"—though his face looked like it had been through a coal mine and then left in the dark for good measure. He had his own dark flashback of a life. He was coming for the first time to Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan. All his life, he had been married to his village: Labar, Pema Gatshel. Sweating over keeping his dependents alive—farming, carrying heavy loads, and living in a dark home to match his dark face. A mundane, shit-stained life. The main reason for dropping out? Financial problems. Over and above that, he lived with his old stepfather—a professional alcoholic who regularly bet Karpola's mother in drunken card games. (I'm not joking. He actually put her as a bet. Lost her twice on Tuesdays.) Karpola had to take over everything. His mother's sole survival fell on him like a sack of wet rice.

But me? I had studied. I had a job now. We met after seven or so years. My parents' house sat on one lone hill; his sat over the next. We weren't overnight friends—we were infant friends. Same mud, same lice. After talking, he agreed to come for a break from what he called "over cowly life" in the village to Thimphu with me. Visiting Thimphu was his life's dream. And this could be the dream. He was bubbling over with excitement—and also with some unidentified gas from village beans.

We traveled one of the longest journeys. Most of the time, he slept inside the car, being ill from dizziness. On the way, he kept saying, "You overdrive." I overruled him. 50-60 km/hr was average speed, for God's sake. I wasn't racing a wild yak.

Near Thimphu city, we washed our faces fresh. I asked him to be watchful of his dreamland. For a better view, I drove him via Semtokha road. He opened his mouth. His tongue stuck out like a dying lizard as his eyes ran over every corner of the valley. Down the big lane—hundreds of cars, hundreds of crowded buildings. He pushed out, "Oh, over cars! More than cows in my village." I laughed. My bladder almost gave up.

We crossed Lungtenphug and saw the whole face of Thimphu. He looked at the city with his poking eyes, craned his neck through the car window like a turtle trying to escape. He looked arrestingly overwhelmed. "This is over beautiful," he noised into the air. "You misused the preposition," I said, laughing. "We say the most beautiful." "Anyway, this is over beautiful," he muttered. I gave up. Some battles are not worth fighting.

"We can see this place from outside," I fawned over him. "Let's check inside." I liked to lord it over my friend. We entered town, parked at the side of the road. Now the man from the uptown world was roaming the downtown world. We reached the farmer's market. I tried to paper over the cracks, but he had a habit of drooling over every nook and corner. That was where he got petrified. Somewhat allergic to his own dream. His face clouded over like a monsoon sky.

"This is over dirty," he announced. "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 personally hand-delivered this mess. I once again corrected him—this time with a sense of responsibility and shame for the place I had been fussing over. "You can just say dirty," I said. He looked at me like I had grown a second head.

My far cousin lived in Changjiji. We slept over for some days while I handled my spinning administrative works at the Education Ministry. Karpola, seeing all kinds of people, felt happy to mix in the mixture. I wanted him to experience city life. One night, we went over with a bang to a discotheque. Big mistake. We saw gangs of youth drunk, hauling over the coals, and soon breaking into a fight. A bottle flew past my ear. Someone's underwear was somehow on the ceiling. "This is over dangerous!" he cried. I lost my words. My intention was to show him another side of life—comfort, beauty, internal peaceful coexistence—but it turned all over. Karpola's habitual use of "over" put me in deep thinking.

The other night, I lay down on my bed and mulled over the word over. I doubled over with a hearty laugh thinking about it. But this wasn't a laughing matter. Was it? I came up with so many reasons. One could look externally beautiful but have dirty interiors—like a fancy hotel with a rat in the soup. The difference between "over" and "normal" was like having two faces of a person. Everything overly over is bad. Overeating? Bad. Overdrinking? Bad. Overusing "over"? Karpola was a walking lesson. But then again, over and over trying makes success. So maybe he was a genius.

After a week's stay, he decided to go home. He had a sort of hangover for his village. "My village is over normal," he said. He seemed 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 betraying dream—and went back to his village. I didn't think he would be happy to spill over the news of his visit to his village mates. But knowing him, he probably told them Thimphu was "over dirty" and that I lived in a toilet.

I dropped him at the bus station. I had to return the next morning to Gedu. As his bus pulled away, he stuck his head out the window and yelled one last time: "You overdrive!" Then he was gone. I sat in my car for five minutes, laughing like an idiot. Then I drove back—at 50 km/hr.

Everything

An enraptured 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 me through life—
ups and downs.
And I thank you,
and never forget,
for fulfilling my dream.



My only wish
is to keep you happy.
The above gods and goddesses
wish us
with mindfulness of happiness
and feelings of consideration.
To my heaven-sent lover:
wish with no ills and troubles,
because I care for 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 a great 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 Terma 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 Rinpoche passed away in America, and his kudung (sacred body) was brought to Bhutan, where it was kept for the wellbeing of the Bhutanese people for one month.

I was present in Paro (Lango) when his kudung was cremated. Thousands of devotees gathered—it was said that more than 20,000 to 30,000 people attended. Some arrived as early as 2 AM to secure a spot as close as possible. Those who came late had to perch on caves and rugged terrain. Buddhists believe that Rinpoche was an incarnation of Guru Rinpoche himself.

Below are the photos taken on Mechay 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, nor do I understand my own country's monetary system. I can count cash, but a financial crisis or crunch is new to me. My economics teacher taught me that when supply and demand don't match, inflation or deflation occurs. I believe this holds true in every aspect of life. When boys outnumber girls, girls are in high demand. Similarly, when production doesn't align with market value, inflation follows.

So now, what the hell is happening with the Indian rupee (IC) and the Bhutanese ngultrum (BC)? In border towns like Jaigaon and Samdrupjongkhar, the rupee has become scarcer than a kidney for a patient waiting for a donor. On the other hand, the ngultrum is just stacks of paper piling up in merchants' hands.

To witness this crisis firsthand, I walked downtown to see its cause and effect. I stopped at a shirt shop to buy one. I intentionally wanted to shock the shopkeeper by pulling out a bundle of ngultrum notes. After we agreed on a price of Nu. 250, I took out BC notes. The salesperson's sudden, crafty look told me everything. He refused outright, saying he wouldn’t accept BC and demanded IC instead. If I had to pay in BC, he said, I'd have to pay 300—50 extra. Then he leaned in and whispered that if I brought 1 lakh in IC, he'd exchange it and give me an extra 10,000 BC.

I started wondering if the barter system was creeping back. If so, paper cash was becoming useless—it held no real value. I vaguely agreed that I would "try," though I knew that trying would lead nowhere. Recently, a policeman was caught red-handed exchanging IC for BC at a higher rate. That officer was nabbed by the shamus. It makes me think: when it comes to money, the law upholder is often the first to become the lawbreaker. I laughed at the irony.

I've heard that Bhutanese people are doing big business out of this crisis. I remember my father saying, "When one bull falls, another rises." My brother, who is a banker, told me that we Bhutanese are real bulls when it comes to doing business that could seriously harm our own country. I didn't understand him—I'm thick-headed about these matters.

Anyway, the trade or exchange value in border towns is currently 100 IC for 120 BC, and it may rise further. The value of the crown's head is losing to the lion's head. Meanwhile, the government pays 5 percent on GoI facilities and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facilities.

I later dropped in on an old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments. I hadn't visited him in three years—back then, I bought seven different garments in one go, enough to last over two years. That purchase made him so happy it turned into a sort of "underwear friendship." Now, I realize: was I really being economical, spending so much on small items all at once? It was like buying two cars when you only need one.

He greeted me warmly, then immediately fired questions at me about the rupee crisis. "Who am I to control anything?" I asked myself. I told him the government was discussing it and that it would be resolved soon. After some blabbering, he warned me in a friendly way that Bhutanese people are great spendthrifts—we spend without saving. I asked how much money he gets daily from Bhutanese customers. His answer astonished me: ten thousand or more every day. His is a small shop. If even he gets that much, what must others be getting?

Bhutan exports little to nothing but imports a great deal—90 percent from India. Money flows out, and border areas are flooded with ngultrums. He told me the same story: he needs IC to keep his business rolling. Like other merchants, he said in the name of friendship he'd give me a better exchange rate than others would. I replied, "I'll try"—a safe answer that wouldn't hurt his feelings.

My Dear Jane is a Game

Today—3rd March 2012, the day I write this—I will finally reveal my undisclosed secret: why I was never like my other friends who chased after girls. And you might wonder why today, not earlier and not later. The truth is, I am afraid I will soon leave these days, just like my dear Seltu—Mr. Dog.

Today, my dear Seltu kicked the bucket. He had been suffering from a strange illness for twenty days. He moaned and whined with tears in his eyes. I took him to a veterinarian, but to no avail. His condition never improved. I buried him near my maize field, said goodbye to my faithful friend, and returned home wiping away my tears.

But my pain did not end there.

Like my Mr. Dog, I have been moaning and whining for twenty years—not less, not more. Twenty years, not twenty days. I know the exact dates: 7th July 1987 to 7th July 2007. Wow, how the dates match. And this is the story of those years.

This is no tale-telling tale. It is a true, tearing story of pain, of weepy me, and of my strange, happenstance feelings. The story begins at the beginning and leads to the ending—as it should.


Pre-primary school was such fun. Unashamed girls dashed past each other. Kids without underwear rolled around for no reason. Children punched each other for no reason at all. But one lovely picture became encrusted in my mind.

Pictures, art, and photos were loved by children. That was how we were made to get attracted to books. I picked up my first picture book—a book that would stay with me for twenty years. I was attracted by the art on its cover. From that moment, she soon became a part of me.

Simply put, she was beautiful. She wore a little white cloche hat on her head. Her face was pure and white. Her dreamy eyes smiled. Her nose was perfectly molded. Her lips were sparklingly crimson. Every beautiful adjective in the world could describe her beautiful face.

I tried to recognize the big, bold letters: J…A…N…E A…U…S…T…E…N. Below that were smaller letters: E…M…M…A. What was that? I didn't know. But I knew her face.

I jealously hid that "J" book in the corner of the bookshelf so that my friends would not find it and touch that picture next time. Whenever I visited the library, I took that book and immersed myself in her. She stared at me. I stared at her. I laughed at her, and she laughed back at me.

My friends called me crazy. They called me a fool for laughing at myself. But I was not a fool. I was laughing with my girl.

I had truly fallen in love with her.

Many times, the librarian caught me standing near the door, hoping to enter. "Do you want to rob the library, Khotsa?"

"No, Lopen. I just want to see some books."

But the same response always came: "Your period is over. Go!"

I felt truly maddened when I had to run away from my beloved one, who was locked up inside that room. The closer I went to the room, the safer my feelings became. She was always there, preoccupied in my mind.


I saw a chance to possess the same kind of book. I told my father that I would never go to school unless I had a book from the store. I said the teachers would punish me for not bringing it. I fabricated this story just to get the book.

We traveled for three days from our village to a bookstore in Samdrupjongkhar. My father grumbled repeatedly after buying the book: "What's wrong? There is nothing in this 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. I felt happy.


I completed Standard VI, and nobody could believe my result. I was awarded first division. My friends thronged around me. "How did you stay the whole year with one book and still get first division? That Rogtola—the nickname given to the class position holder—is second?"

I was surprised too. But I believed in believing someone. And that someone, for me, was Jane—the 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 carried my Jane everywhere. By then, the cover had become abraded and smudged, but her face still shone through. I came to know that the book was the story of Emma, who suffered the threats of misconstrued romance. The content of the book had nothing to do with me. The cover was the treasure.

I never showed the book to anyone. If someone had seen me in that high standard class with such a low standard book, they would have gone crazy.

And that was exactly what happened one unfortunate day at home, after my Class X common exam.


My father ransacked my things and laughed at me. "This is what you learn in Class X? We bought this book when you started primary school, and you're still on this?"

My mother's interference made things worse. They talked to each other, and I caught some words.

"He seems to be masturbating while looking at this art girl," my father said intentionally, hoping I would change my behavior.

I felt hurt. I was saddened when they told me to leave the book and study my materials. My girl did not deserve this—to be called nonsense, to be linked to masturbation. I stood up, ran outside, and sat under a tree while my mother noised, "What happened?"

The wind blew heavy. Little by little, I realized that I had been obsessed by her hollow love. The leaves of the tree shaded me, almost covering me completely. I sat there for almost a day.

My mother came with the book. "Take this. This is all yours." She consoled me as if she had understood my feelings.

"No, I put this book in my bag by mistake," I lied.

My mother forgave me, even though I had done nothing wrong. But my father ridiculed me often after that, calling me "dead log," "ludicrous boy," "be careful," and scores of other names.


The next academic year started, and I had to leave my other half at home. Before I left, my father thoroughly frisked my bags. Finding the book on his own bed, he let me go.

It was like axing a tree. I bled inside. The whole year, I spent missing her and pissing away my days. I didn't want any other lover—I already had one. I did not want to betray my childhood love.

I kept her in my mind. Now, there was only one thing in my life: to know who she really was.

Life was whirling in a flood then—troubled studies and unspeakable 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 had led me into the game of love. I spent those mystified years with her, emotionally and mentally.



The same story followed me into my three-year B.Ed course in Samtse. However, I thought a little less of her there because I had to be busy with my tough materials. But my dear Jane often appeared in my dreams.

One day, without noticing, I told my friend that I loved Jane very much. That friend got quite surprised and irritated. "Don't remind me of that," he said. "I loved that art girl too."

I laughed at him but stopped abruptly, knowing the consequence. Such was the fate of loving a picture. My mind felt as if it had been hit with a big tong, plucking 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. Sometimes it healed. Technologies adjust life, and technologies also revive and destroy.

With the pride of modernization and the excitement of new things, I opened the internet. It was the blindest search I had ever made—just to see my art girl. Everyone would question me now. It crazed me too.

And believe me, it was exactly her. I could not mistake her, for I had loved her for so many years. And believe me, she still wore that same little white cloche cap on her head. The same pure, white face. The same dreamy eyes. The same sparkling lips.

Her picture on the screen lingered with me. I read her details—and sorry, I don't want to share those details. My wife would kill me! Her name was not Jane this time. She was something else, but I like to call her Jane.

My father would learn all the ways to operate the internet if I showed him the art girl again. As for that book and the art girl, my father later told me over the telephone that he had had a misunderstanding with my mother, and she had had to burn that book. But now I have the internet to see her every day. My father would wish for that too.


In fact, to see her and to think about her was to throw me like a stone flung far apart—ditched and separated. She was far away. So many mountains and seas separated us. I had fallen. My hands shivered to write something to her. 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 this: I have been waiting for you for twenty years, just like my Mr. Dog—moaning and whining.

And sorry to say, my dear Jane, this is how life is to be lived. I am married now. And what can I do? You will remain in my heart forever and ever and ever—until I kick the bucket, until 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 deprivation?
Where is the care without carelessness?
Where is the love without hate?
Where is success without malfunction?
Where is life without death?

Where is truth without a lie?
Where is god without the devil?
Where is 'you' without an 'I'?
Where is belief without unbelief?
Where is heaven without evil?
Where is stress without relief?

Where is hope without the fear?
Where is the tree without the shoot?
Where is the month without the year?
Where is 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?
The questions are like oceans.
These are the captions,
the subjects of books:
Where? What? Why? Who? How — fill oceans?
Where men ponder hooks.


Note:
The above nonsense and humorous poem is something like: "Where is the choice in the jail?" As we know, a lock-up is meant to be broken out of, but life gives no choice in this. It's in the heart, in the soul, where lie the reasons of all sense.