Who DOESN’T Try?

From time to time, we get demoralized by people who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth—probably the same spoon they now use to stir their gourmet coffee while we struggle with instant.  From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have achieved great heights without doing much. You know the type. They yawn and succeed. We sweat and fail. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of capabilities but are left in the dust. Talented, brilliant, hardworking—and somehow still eating dust while others eat cake. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of love but are betrayed by the same love. They give their heart, and someone uses it as a doormat.

Everything is unequal. George Orwell's Animal Farm rightly says, "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others." In other words, the pigs get the good beds. We get the straw. And no one even asks if we're comfortable. Anyways, life is not all about comparison. At least, that's what I tell myself while secretly comparing. But honestly, I am not so obsessed. I look for a place or path where I can have enough space to stay or walk on. That is it. A plate of rice is enough for me. Maybe with an egg on a good day. And if someone throws in a pickle, I call it a feast.

Life will change, I thought when I was a boy. I was so innocent. As I realize now, life doesn't change—it just keeps changing its mind. And it's only the beginning of overcoming trials and tribulations. The beginning, mind you. Not the middle. Not the end. Just the first of many, many rounds.

I cared so very much about the fruits, not about how a tree is nurtured and taken care of. Classic mistake. When I jumped to get fruits from an un-nurtured tree, the fruits were dreadfully small. Like, embarrassingly small. The kind of fruit that makes other fruits laugh.

Life is trying and trying and even more trying—not axing the dreams. It's trying. I have tried to do many things in my life, but most of them failed. Again and again. I tried to work hard to reach the target I had thought, but my work hung in the vacuum of nowhere. Hardly anyone recognized my toils. Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Or maybe it was an unreachable fate. Whatever it was, it didn't come with a manual.

I tried to write. It faltered devastatingly. Some sentences still lie on the floor, unfinished and ashamed. But I am ever trying. I was hurt, but I move on. The bad parts shape me into a better person—like a rock being carved by a very slow, very patient, slightly drunk sculptor. I tried liking my job, but others didn't like the way I worked. Without knowing anything, it was also fagging—a fancy word for "exhausting labor with no applause." I tried to fulfill my parents' expectations, but that's putting me off to the future. Honestly, they were supposed to fulfill my expectations. I think we got the roles reversed somewhere. I tried to mask happiness, but the internal force was more powerful. I am a victim of my own face. It betrays me constantly. I tried very many alternatives to bring my life to my satisfaction, but every trying is as useless as not trying at all. The more I try, the more worries I have that anguish my problems further. The more problems I encounter, the more solutions I try to find. But the solutions are far hidden behind the mountains. Probably behind the same mountains where my missing socks go.

God forbid me not from not trying. (Yes, read that twice. That's how confused I am.) I will keep on trying. I say this because when everything fails, in the end, one hope keeps me kicking: knowing that I have my family to embrace me and show me that there is still love around me. So I will keep on trying. I am not an escapee. I can't give up easily. BUT... what can I try now? Good question. If you have answers, please send them by pigeon. Or email. Or just shout. Anyways, hope keeps waking up. Even when I want to sleep in, hope shows up with a loud alarm and a cheerful smile. Annoying, but useful. And this story keeps me believing there is something in life—an artificially-kind-of-real that we need to display to live our lives forth. Here is the story:

A man bought 12 flowers. 11 real and 1 fake. He said, "I will love you until the last flower dies." And this is the irony of life: to fake and live, or to live and fake. Either way, the fake flower never dies. So technically, he loves forever. But also technically, he cheated. And that, my friend, is life in a nutshell: beautiful, flawed, and slightly dishonest.

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 will be of desperation,

The other lot will have some criticism,

Everywhere; some bending and harassment,

Face pulls down and

Mouth shut!

All over, your act will be defective.

Everywhere you wrong;

And infects others!

 The grave is your place-

Whatever you attain or find

Turns out to be meaningless

All endeavors turn to nothing

One way or other, your people hurt you,

They go off beam,

Splitting the same smash-up.

Why do these come about erratically?

To stick with for a week or two

Every walk you walk,

Every talk you talk

Will diffuse your face

Nothing counts.

All gone astray to be dishonored;

Those push down your days

You bear wary.

When bad luck comes slithering

You’re in the chasm of omission

Nobody heeds

And nobody you can take care.

At this time, you think and think

But of all wrongs

Nothing hit!

Your world turns sinister

You cringe your mind - thick

And think

But your hurts multiply in the heart,

The thing that never will imagine beyond,

At this point, you must be more cautious and con­scious.

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 favorite poems. The poem is short but it has multi-faceted meanings. The poem describes a spider, which is noiseless, patient, and isolated (bother less) and it works on its web. It’s doing the most uncertain part of hard work: trying to shoot out lots of little filaments ceaselessly, patiently and tirelessly, and trying to get one of them to stick to something.  We too ceaselessly muse, venture, and seek all of our lives to achieve the height of enlightenment; trying to find the meaning of life, but we get obstructed, tired, bogged down and bothered so much by the world that surrounds us. We must learn all kinds of super-perseverance from this creepy creature.

 

This poem is not only about a spider; Whitman tells us that spider is a metaphor for the human soul, which also explores and tries to connect. Whitman describes the vulnerability of the soul in this vast realm of existence. He tries to find ways to accommodate the soul and find a place for it amongst the rest of the soul-filled world, hence the bit about venturing, seeking, and connecting in this measureless ocean of space. With the use of lots of imagery and figure of speech (metaphor), it portrays a deeper human emotion.

 

The poem is about hard work, exploration, spirituality and the man and the natural world. 

 

Dzongkha Lopens

One of the weird kinds of people that we encounter in our life is our Dzongkha Lopens. They have a typical way of misbehaving and dealing with people. And they tease girls like anything! And happy would be if female Dzongkha lopens behave such to boys. But I tell you, they are timidly naughty too. Though looked at as the upholder of good ethics and discipliners in the school, they themselves are utterly breakers of all these. Their disorderliness and unruliness are the order of the day. They seem to be acting very strict; smack or beat students but they are not really so; I say this now with regret (I would have climbed on their heads if I had known in my school days). Their personalities can be the worst of any humankind sometimes. They sometimes think they are the only people around.

I was disciplined by so many of my Dzongkha Lopens. One Lopen in Pemagatshel Jr. School was known as Lopen Goenpo Lhudrup (nicknamed), cause he used to tell us the story of Goenpo Lhudrup every time. The story interested us so much so that we felt almost sleepy in the class. Lopen Goenpo Lhudrup had a habit of drinking and coming to the class. He, in his drunken, sleepy state used to ask us to pluck his beard from his face. The smell of alcohol made us depleted in the class.  We were not as stupid as Goenpo Lhudrup had thought; some of us took out the sharpest pins from our Lhagay and pierced on Lopen’s chin. The Lopen stood up grunting. Tiny blood oozed from his face. Stunned, he would go.

For that whole year, the Lopen didn’t ask the class to pluck his hair from his face.

Lopens, especially Dzongkah Lopens are heavy drinker. Lopen X in Darla MSS (name withheld) revolves his life around drinks and women. Lopens are usually not good womanizers but indisputably good in drinking. They don’t have a patient to pour sweet talks and wait; they just jump into conclusion with many contacts on forbidden parts of the body. But this Mr. X, once he drinks, he becomes wild. There is no word as shame in his dictionary. He speaks around in whatever he likes. He moves around carefree. He dances on the stage -less stage. He becomes one and he thinks he dominates the world. Such is the height of his sense.

One day, I asked him why he was so desperate that made him behave like dog. The response Mr.X gave was even worse than a dog’s barking. It was somewhat like a cat’s meowing. “Don’t just catch rats.” He said. I guessed what he really meant to say, it would certainly mean that one should do everything in life. The cat must not sleep hush near the fire and wait for rats. The cat must behave like a mouse, like a bird, move around the holes. That was absolutely true. Mr. X was right.

With the change of time, our Lopens have changed a great deal. Lopens, who are supposedly responsible and are exponents of Dzongkha language, have become fans of the English language. The twists of their mouths and producing different accents make English more popular in school than Dzongkha. I have seen Mr. X communicating and making fun of his 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 in English to make his lesson understand better, and it seems like giving more importance to English.

Our Dzongkha Development Commission (DDC) has done nothing to upgrade Dzongkha. English enthusiast Dzongkha Lopens will one day speak Dzonglish - a mixture of Dzongkha and English. DDC must promote Dzongkha learning through fun ways. It should let loose of its fixed phonologies, words, grammar, etc, and make it easier like English. Our Dzongkha Lopens are sometimes tough on silly little mistakes. It demotivates learners so much. Mr. X has only one particular word for maize as ‘Gayza,’ limiting vocabulary. Why not ‘a:shome?’

Note: The above article is the memories and observation of the author and doesn’t intend to hurt anyone implicitly or explicitly, especially some of our dedicate Lopens.

Atheist Or Pantheist

Our class is supposed to start two weeks ago but as many friends are coming late, very late indeed, there was no class for these two weeks. So I have been doing nothing productive in this period. I have been sleeping, watching movies, writing, and downloading notes for the semester. And most of the time, I have been roving and wandering around. But where can I go; everywhere I go, traffic noises dumb and dump me at times. In a place like Majestic, Bangalore, there is nothing as such as majestic in the Majestic, but the continuous drone of traffic and noises. Everywhere. Though, malls are fascinated to do lots of window shopping.

Majestic is the place away from my place. It is about a distance between Gedu and Phuntsholing. It is the center of all routes; buses, trains and people. Transport facilities are all available here; buses, rikshas/autos, jeeps, cars, and soon metro train is in the pipeline. But of all, bus transportation is a very cheap and reliable one, though; it takes more than two or more hours to reach Majestic. The fare is only rs.13 and if you don’t have change and have to give rs.20; there is a possibility that the conductor would write balance on the reverse side of the ticket, and if you don’t ask for the balance while getting down the bus, they wouldn’t bother to give. That is their business and you know my friend told me every single Indian is a cheater. So be it, if you have a loaded pocket.  On the way, because of traffic jams and frequent stops make one could see scenes around. And what could be the picture; the pollution and noises of vehicles. There are huge numbers of people everywhere, people walking, people eating, people working; everyone is busy. You would lose in the crowd.

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 life. Everyone aims to the aimless, hollow things, at last. It looks like everything has great weight and meaning but we are like having no effect on the substantial things. It saddens me and saddens me to think about leaving the world. Where is a more cruel life than this? Having seen and known everything and then go to the unknown world of darkness.

I recite mantras and counts are on to millions. It was said that there is a light side after death if the count reaches three or four millions. But note that I never pray for myself, I pray for others; others sentient beings, ignorant person like me to bring up close to the heaven. I believe in all religions. People sadly said that I am an atheist or follower of Christian or such types. It’s not good to talk about religion. It’s a personal thing anyway, I have a 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 reverences to some of the fake Lamas and religious people. I told them one day that I hate monks. I have seen and heard monks engaging in deadly and horrific affairs like murder, rape, and other misconducts. They know the consequence of sins, and yet they do all these horrible things which are against the cannons and principles of religion. I have encountered a man who knows everything about religion and knows nothing about the basics of life; doing good and being good. Deep inside me, I, myself think sometimes that I have a heart of butter!! And a heart as good as gold. I have basic human rules in my mind. I have compassion and think good about others. I never engaged in unsocial or hurtful things. I mean good and doesn’t affect anyone. I have these two beliefs in my heart; being compassionate and doing good. I have no intention to hurt others through telling lies or working for the benefit of myself. I don’t like to show. There are outsiders, who act religiously outside and do for the benefit of themselves and don’t bother to care about others’ hearts. Very hurting man. Such a disguise to our religion. 

We Never Say Goodbye

Last time, I parted from my beloved family. My friend told me that it's always hard to say goodbye. And he was right—it really was. But then I started wondering: why does English have such an aching, miserable, heart-wrenching word called goodbye? It sounds like something you say at a funeral or when you're dropping someone off at the airport and secretly glad 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 only tell them to stay well and that I will see them." He looked confused. I looked enlightened. It was a good moment.Truly, as per my dictionary—which is mostly in my head and 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," says 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. 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. 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. He is my new Bhutanese friend in Bangalore (name withheld for personal reasons). He talks too much—so very much, I think. Gross, honestly. He opens his mouth from the moment he wakes up and only closes it when he sleeps, given the chance. We say a good talker is a good listener. But he is not.

Let me share an incident from his unending stream of words. Once, we were walking to buy vegetables at the market. He went on talking from the moment we left the door all the way to the market. "I was this… that… when I was young… I would like to… my life…" Everything about him and his life. Many times, I felt ashamed just for listening to him. I wanted to run. "Ya, ya" was all I could say. The return journey was all about vegetables: their shapes, textures, what they could be mixed with, the cost, and his personal likes. Again, "Ya, ya" was all I could say.  

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. Anyway, I am happy that I only have to stay with him for two or three days—not a garrulous future forever.

The opposite of him is perfectly me. I am mostly unspoken. I am taciturn, with something like babyish tantrums inside. 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. Now I worry that I might grow tired of listening to anyone in the future.

The climax of all his talking comes from social media—Facebook. Very recently, he opened an account. He talks through it. He comments on every post and 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, he sometimes gets replies and 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.

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.