Happy Birth Day Pema Tashi

It was a great day when you were born. I can still remember the moment I first saw you as a tiny baby—how you took my breath away. I loved you then, and I love you now. Thank you for being with us, and I thank God for that. As we celebrate your birthday, we also celebrate the anniversary of your arrival in this world—and how you made it a better, happier place for us. The 12th of December will always be an auspicious day for us.

Now, though we are far apart, you are always inside me. I cry out with happiness when I hear your voice in my dreams, and I cry out when I talk to you. You are always here. I pray for you. I miss you, my dear baby.

You have a place in this world that is unique, and so many paths to walk. You have so many dreams to seek, so many talents, so much goodness and rightness within you. You are the golden rays of the sun. And know this: you are our heart, our loving child. We wish you health and happiness. We will do everything for you. We will surround you, making you feel safe, happy, comfortable, and prosperous. We love you, and we care for you. Always.

My Son

My son Pema

Is a bouncing boy.

He calls himself Rama

And makes Him a toy.

His full name is Pema Tashi.

He likes being called Dorji instead.

He throws a fuss if I say Yeshi—

Better his father's last name instead.

I tell him a name is just a name,

Don't make such a nonsense flame.

It's not where you came from,

But you can still make good fame.

His only aim: to be a truck driver.

He brings many trucks, breaks them too,

Then throws them in the nearby river.

He asks me, "Is a real truck that weak? Is that true?"

He calls me Tom and himself Jerry.

He calls me Eon and himself Ben Ten.

We bet—our team was in a hurry—

Then he smacks me till I'm beaten.

We are like Kenchosum, we are three.

My wife and I do everything for his happiness.

He is the only fruit on our tree.

Let him be anyone—for human goodness.

Nothing

He has nothing today-

nothing exactly,

and nothing more.

And nothingness enshrouds him.

Nothing is worthwhile.

Nothing.

There is nothing as such-

only the sound of rustling,

and nothing more.

Mute, deaf, dumb, and numbed-nothing

Not even a heartbeat.

Nothing.

There is nothing in life.

He is gone today,

leaving life behind.

Hopes, dreams, and wishes-all dead.

Nothingness is all he has.

Nothing.

Nothing will last to the end.

It’s as empty,

 as useless as

a smile from a minute ago

that shifts into tears.

 Nothing.

The world is nothing to him.

He Cannot hold, cannot play, cannot secure.

It’s all nothing-

because he is nothing.

Everything has become nothing.

All that's alive is nothingness,

triumphing over something.

Nothing is what his life has become now-

his dreams lying cold and dead on the ground.

Who DOESN’T Try?

From time to time, we get demoralized by people who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. 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.

Anyway, 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's 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.

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. 

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. I tried to fulfill my parents' expectations, but that kept putting me off to the future. 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.

God forbid me not from not trying. 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?

Anyway, 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 twelve flowers: eleven real and one 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 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. 

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

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

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