Bad Luck

Now and then, bad luck can shame you
and make you gloomy.
The hurt in the heart bemuses and frustrates.
Everything you carry out reeks of desperation.
The other lot will have their criticism—
everywhere, some bending and harassment.
Your face pulls down.
Your mouth shuts.
All over, your every act feels defective.

---

Everywhere, you are wrong—
and you infect others.
The grave is your true place.
Whatever you attain or find
turns out to be meaningless.
All endeavors crumble to nothing.
One way or another, your people hurt you.
They go off beam,
splitting the same old smash-up.

---

Why do these things come so erratically,
sticking for a week or two?
Every walk you walk,
every talk you talk
diffuses your face into nothing.
Nothing counts.
All gone astray, dishonored.
Those days push you down,
and you bear the weight wearily.

---

When bad luck comes slithering,
you fall into the chasm of omission.
Nobody heeds you.
And there is nobody you can take care of—
not even yourself.

---

At this time, you think and think,
but of all wrongs,
nothing hits back.
Your world turns sinister.
You cringe your mind thick,
you think—
but your hurts only multiply in your heart,
piling beyond what you ever imagined.

At this point, you must be more cautious
and more conscious.
Because the dark doesn't warn you twice.

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. Congratulations, I think?

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. (Yes, I said easier. Fight me.) 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. 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. True? Also 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.

.

A Huge Talker

A "huge talker" is someone who talks excessively. I had heard about such people many times, but I never encountered one until recently. Then I met him—my new Bhutanese friend in Bangalore (name withheld to protect his lungs, and my sanity). He talks too much. So very much. Grossly, honestly, painfully much. He opens his mouth the moment he wakes up and only closes it when he falls asleep—and even then, I suspect he mumbles in his dreams just to keep the streak alive.

We say a good talker is a good listener. He is not. Not even close. He listens like a fish listens to a lecture on water.

Let me share an incident from his unending stream of words. Once, we walked to buy vegetables at the market. He started talking the moment we left the door and didn't stop until we returned—two hours later. "I was this… that… when I was young… I would like to… my life…" Everything about him. Every single detail. I learned things about his childhood I didn't even know about my own childhood. Many times, I felt ashamed just listening to him—not for him, but for myself, for not running away. I wanted to sprint. "Ya, ya" was all I could manage. That was my entire vocabulary for the afternoon.

The return journey was all about vegetables: their shapes, their textures, what they could be mixed with, the cost per kilo, his personal likes and dislikes (he dislikes bitter gourd with a passion usually reserved for political enemies). Again, "Ya, ya" was all I could say. I think I said "ya" about four hundred times that day. My jaw still hurts.

He talks about his family, his wife, his studies—everything good about himself. Talking about oneself is not always good, I imagine. It doesn't interest others. But knowing oneself internally is important—more important than others, I insist. Still, I should note that he is not an empty vessel. Sometimes he speaks wisdom beyond what life itself could offer. Buried under an avalanche of words, there is occasionally a nugget of gold. You just have to dig. With a shovel. For hours.

Anyway, I am happy that I only have to stay with him for two or three days at a time—not a garrulous future forever. If this were permanent, I would have already applied for a monastery. A silent one.

The opposite of him is perfectly me. I am mostly unspoken. Taciturn. The strong, silent type—if the strong part is optional. I have something like babyish tantrums inside, but I keep them to myself. I listen, and I can listen as much as anyone. But his talks break my nerves. I simply cannot. It reaches my limit, and it begins to sound like a barking dog—or worse, a yapping dog with a megaphone. Now I worry that I might grow tired of listening to anyone in the future. He may have broken my ears permanently.

The climax of all his talking, however, comes from social media—Facebook. Very recently, he opened an account. And now he talks through that too. He comments on every post. Every photo. He sends hundreds of friend requests to strangers and chats with unknown people online. I squeak with a peal of loud laughter every time he messages unknown girls. And surprisingly—shockingly, even—he sometimes gets replies. He becomes good friends with them. That is how this seemingly insane person satisfies his talking desire when I refuse to give a damn about his words. He has found an infinite audience. God help them all.

Communication is complete when the listener can decode and encode messages. The exchange of information is effective only when it is worthwhile and appreciated. That, I believe, is understandable. But when one person talks and the other just says "ya, ya" four hundred times, I am not sure communication is happening. I think that is called survival.

The Bad Things of Good Things-a story

"Ask! Ask if you don't know. Inquire, if you want to know. Ask Zangpo why I drink so much. Zangpo knows all. He sees what I see. He does what I do. He cares for me like nobody else."

Once upon a time, flowers bloomed. But the fruits fell before anyone could pick them. No one could eat. Hope and desperation hung in the empty spaces. Everyone was left alone.

Alone. That is how I was then, and how I am now. I need to survive. But how will I survive when I have given part of my heart and my life away? It takes a long time to mend a life that was once so full. My broken heart sinks and cuts like a knife. Why did you do such things? Our friendship was pretentious all along. "Rich friends have rich hearts of love"—that sounds foolish to me now. I see clearly now that you only showed me the duplicity of friendship.

"Birds of the same feather flock together." I read that in seventh standard. So it was with Pasang (name changed) and me. We became fast friends in a distant school in the capital. Similarities attract each other. We were both silent. We were both away from home for the first time. We had innocent parents who trusted us.

As the days moved, I observed that Pasang was too conservative, hardworking, divinely religious, and self-praising. He did not drink any kind of liquor and had the best habit of always volunteering to be class captain or something similar. In this sense, I was quite different. I was always a silent observer. Sometimes I sneaked out of class and drank alone in melancholy moods.

As days and months passed, other classmates regarded us as close friends. So the chance of making other friends became less. You can't befriend everyone in school. If you do, you have no true friends. That happens in school life. You cannot befriend time itself.

The seeds of our friendship were planted spontaneously. Our surroundings said so. We shared food. We studied together—sometimes at my house, occasionally at his. I believed we had become true friends. He was our volunteered captain. We were in a different class then. Many of his classmates cursed him for being so authoritarian, and they refused to have him as captain the next month. I guessed he lost that future chance.

Life rolled on. Youth is the age of rupture. Everything ruptured in no time.

After two years, we were again together at NIE, Samtse, as training mates. He was different then. I had always considered him a friend—anywhere, everywhere, whatever I did. But he was quite different. He ignored me simply. I didn't mind much at first. As the days passed, he began to win respect from elders and lecturers by polishing their shoes and volunteering for them. He volunteered to be a house counselor in the first year. The story was the same: many classmates hated him for being authoritative and using his power wickedly. I always thought he was a bad leader and a bad counselor.

Our friendship became so thin that whenever we met, he talked little or ignored me. Like flower petals falling one by one, our bonds broke one by one. Still, I thought he would help me when I needed him. The truth was, I was under him in his house captainship, and he made me do SUPW work right in front of his eyes. I didn't mind it so much.

Then came the beginning of the death of our friendship. I remember it vividly. I took this incident very seriously—what he did to me that day. Without any reason, he turned against me completely.

It happened on the NIE football field. He was one of the judges of the football match—such a sycophantic person. He threatened to make me the ball retriever. If I refused, he would report me to his other sycophant lecturer, and that would create enough problems to make me lose marks. The ball retriever's job was to get the ball when it went outside. Taking part in games and sports as a ball catcher meant marks to pass our course.

Half the match was over. Resting time. I was about to sit on the empty chair near him. And what he said next I will never forget—and never forgive: "Go, don't sit here, ball boy. Go there." He pointed to the sewage drain. It wasn't even his chair. Ball boys sometimes sat there. I remained silent and sat on the muddy-smelling tank. It wouldn't have been so shameful if not for the crowd of girls who had heard him and were looking at me with pity—or worse, disgust. I had never had a single girl in my life. My face would burn if I ever talked to one. The match started again. I went to talk to him, but he was damned.

The match ended. The players came for refreshments. They brought out fruity juice. The juice distributor was about to give me a bottle, but Pasang came and snatched it away. Then he turned his back and announced to all the players and judges to drink every single bottle. I tried to say something in a comical way to lighten the matter, but he was damned. At that moment, I couldn't resist. I was about to hit my best friend. But I controlled myself.

I was deeply ashamed. What wrong had I done to my true friend? I couldn't understand. Behind the curtain, I knew something was in his mind—something that made him hate me so much. I asked myself: real friends don't exploit or ridicule each other in front of others.

Now I know: some people are like dry leaves. They fall without any use to their own tree. They move here and there for a while, then get blown away, unseen from the mother tree. So are many of our friends.

That was the last thing I ever wanted to see or hear from him.

Five years later, I wished for the dearest death. That devil-minded friend lost his wife. He had loved her so deeply. She ran into the jungle and hanged herself.

A few months later, I received a devastating letter. I did not look at it with surprise.

"Why did no one tell me? It has become clear now that you, my best friend, kept me going all these years. I lost my wife because I was mindless. I treated her like I treated you, Zangpo. Now I drink my life away."

There was little satisfaction in my mind that he still remembered those bad days. I replied to him: "In life, we remember only bad things. Let's try to forget those bad happenings and remember the good things instead."

I hoped this small, universal lesson would help him.

But deep down, I knew—some friendships are not meant to be nurtured. Not with selfish people. Not with those who drain you, shame you, and only remember you when their world falls apart.

Note: The above article is a somewhat true story of the author's life, though some details have been truncated for the brevity of the story.