Your Vote is Your Voice

Come 23rd April, Bhutan will hold the second round of the National Council election, and many people will have exercised their franchise. I read that this time, the number of voters is far higher than before—which isn't saying much, because the election turnout in Bhutan was poor in 2008. Only about 51 percent of Bhutanese voted in our first democratic election. That means nearly half the country was doing something else. Possibly napping.

So yes, there is a need to encourage Bhutanese to cast their votes. People need to understand that voting and electing representatives is vital for them. Besides building awareness about the importance of voting, we need to raise understanding of political issues that concern all of us. The Election Commission of Bhutan has been doing great work through songs, pamphlets, gatherings, and announcements. But politics is not a small issue. That is why we must be empowered and take action in the best possible way. Casting our vote and making our voice heard is our right—and our major responsibility.

One of the most inclusive and simplified definitions of democracy is: "A system of the people, run by the people, for the people." Now, we know: voting is for ourselves. Unless you don't like yourself. Then maybe don't vote? (Just kidding. Please vote.)

Voting is one of the most important rights and responsibilities every citizen has. Casting a vote is a privilege, a right, and a duty. Sadly, many people nowadays simply don't want to vote for varying reasons. Some think their individual vote doesn't matter in the larger scheme. Some just aren't keen. Others believe none of the candidates deserve to be in power, so they don't bother. And some are left herding cattle in the jungle—which is a perfectly good excuse, except the cows don't have a vote either. Others face genuine hurdles like the distance to the polling booth.

Let me be blunt: A democratic government is a system of choosing representatives from the masses. Those representatives are then supposed to make the best decisions for the society they represent. If we don't take part in choosing the right person for our community, we forfeit the right to complain about the representative that others chose for us. And we all love to complain, don't we? So vote, or forever hold your peace (and your grumbling).

That's why a good citizen should always exercise their right to vote.

Every action we take each day determines what sort of country we want to live in and shapes who we are. Voting is one such action. Whether we vote or not, it will shape us and our country. We need to shape our lives positively now. We should show the political parties that our votes matter!

Every vote counts. An election can be decided by a single vote, and history could change because one person got—or lost—that one vote. Let me give you some examples:

· Richard Nixon, not John F. Kennedy, would have become U.S. President in 1960 if just one person from each voting place had voted differently. Imagine that hairline difference.
· Texas might not have become part of the United States in 1845 if one U.S. Senator had voted differently. The vote was 27–25. A tie, and Texas would still be waving its own flag.
· And closer to home: If we hadn't voted for Jigme Y. Thinley, he wouldn't have become Prime Minister of Bhutan. So yes, your vote can put someone in a very nice office.

So, we can make a difference by playing a role in choosing our leaders and shaping our laws through voting. But before we vote, we must also learn about the candidates and the issues. Know what's going on in our country and community right now, and try to predict the next five years—though if you have a crystal ball, please share.

Most importantly, as voters, we have the right to demand developmental activities, solutions to problems, and answers to crises from our elected officials. We can also demand they answer for any kind of questionable behavior—because we played our part in the democratic process. We voted. That gives us the glorious right to comment on everything the politicians in power do, from the big decisions to the silly hats they wear on national TV.

On the other hand, if we do not vote, we lose the power to say anything about how our representatives function. And let's be honest—keeping quiet is not our national strength.

Thus, the power of voting is the power of change. It's the power to make a mark in history and voice your opinion. So on 23rd April, don't be a cowherd on the sidelines. Go vote. Your country needs you—and your complaints.

Make Your Voice Heard ... Every Vote Counts!

The Three Cunning Men

A humorous short story told by my mother when I was a kid I think many of us have heard this tale before. Though it is quite popular, I have never seen a written record of it in any language. So here, I have briefly and roughly reproduced it from memory. But let me now tell it properly, the way my mother told it to me.

Once upon a time, in a small village nestled between rolling hills, there lived three men. They were not handsome men. They were not strong men. In fact, each had a peculiar flaw—but none of them was willing to admit it.

The first was called Threadlike Neck. His throat was so slender and delicate that swallowing a grape was an adventure. The second was named Scrawny Chest. His rib cage was so fragile that a hearty sneeze could trouble him for days. The third was known as Lanky Leg. His limbs were long, thin, and brittle—like dried twigs pretending to be tree branches.

One sunny morning, these three decided to go on a picnic. They met in secret behind a banyan tree, whispering like conspirators. "Listen," said Threadlike Neck, his voice a thin whistle. "No one must know about our plan. If others come, they will eat our share." "Agreed," said Scrawny Chest, puffing out his hollow chest. "This shall remain among us three." "Absolutely," added Lanky Leg, shifting his weight carefully from one foot to the other. "Not a word to anyone." And so they swore a solemn oath of secrecy.

“The next morning, while the village still slept, the three men slipped out like shadows. Carrying a large basket filled with rice, spiced meat, fresh vegetables, and pickles, they marched into the deep forest. They walked for an hour, then another, until they found the perfect spot—a clearing beside a bubbling stream, shaded by a mighty fig tree. Birds sang overhead. Butterflies danced among wildflowers. "This is the place," declared Threadlike Neck, setting down the basket with a grunt. They gathered firewood, lit a small flame, and began to cook. Soon, the aroma of simmering meat and fragrant rice filled the air. The men's mouths watered. Their stomachs growled. Lunch was almost ready. And it looked positively luscious. ” Each man eyed the food greedily. Each wanted to be the first to taste it. But none wanted to appear too eager. Finally, Threadlike Neck cleared his throat—carefully, always carefully—and spoke. "Let me check if the salt is all right," he said, as if doing everyone a great favor. Before anyone could object, he plunged his hand into the pot and fished out a large, juicy portion of meat. He lifted it to his lips. His friends watched with envy. But Threadlike Neck was in such a hurry that he did not notice—the meat contained a small, sharp bone. He gulped. The bone shot down his throat and lodged there, tight as a cork in a bottle. "Gkkk—" he gasped, clutching his neck. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple. His threadlike neck, true to its name, could not pass the bone. Within moments, the poor fool collapsed onto the forest floor. Dead.

Scrawny Chest looked at his fallen companion. For a moment, sadness flickered across his face. But then he glanced at the pot of food, still steaming and delicious, and his sorrow evaporated like morning dew. “"Well," he said cheerfully to Lanky Leg, "now there are only two of us to eat this tasty quantity. More for you and me!" He was so pleased with this realization that he decided to celebrate. He slapped his hand hard and fast against his own chest—thwack!—the way a triumphant warrior might beat his breast. But Scrawny Chest had forgotten something important. His ribs were scrawny. Fragile. Brittle as old twigs. ” At the force of his own slap, his ribs splintered like glass. A sharp crack echoed through the forest. Scrawny Chest gasped, staggered, and fell beside his friend. Within moments, he too lay still. Dead.

Lanky Leg stood alone in the clearing. Two bodies on the ground. A pot full of delicious food. And no one left to share it with. His eyes widened. His lips curled into a smile. Then a grin. Then a wide, wicked laugh. "Me?" he whispered. "Only me? All of this… just for me?" “Happiness knew no bounds. He threw his arms into the air and began to dance—a wild, victorious jig around the fire. "Me, only me!" he shouted, leaping higher and higher. "I am the luckiest man alive!" He pranced. He twirled. He kicked up leaves and dust. But Lanky Leg had forgotten something too.” His legs were lanky. Thin. Weak. Not made for dancing, and certainly not made for boasting.’On his seventh triumphant jump, his left leg buckled. Then his right. There was a sound like dry branches snapping—crack, crack—and Lanky Leg crashed to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. The pain was terrible. The shame was worse. And so, with the scent of spiced meat still in his nose and no one to hear his final cry, Lanky Leg died.

And thus, the story of the three cunning men's picnic came to an end. The food they had so selfishly guarded was left untouched by human hands. But not for long.’Soon, the birds of the forest arrived—crows and mynas and bulbuls. Then came the squirrels, the wild boars, and even a shy forest fox. They ate every last grain of rice and every shred of meat. Nothing went to waste. Only the three foolish men wasted themselves.

My mother would always pause here, looking at me with kind but serious eyes, before delivering the moral: "Bragging, envy, and meanness are the garbage of foolish people." She would then add, softly: "A meal shared is a meal enjoyed. A secret hoarded is a poison swallowed alone. Do not be like the three cunning men. Do not let your own flaws become your undoing."

Another Lesson (from me to you) Looking back, I think the story teaches us even more: · Greed disguises itself as cleverness. Each man thought he was being smart. Each was merely being greedy. · Celebration without caution is dangerous. Scrawny Chest and Lanky Leg died not from others' actions, but from their own. · Secrets kept for selfish reasons often end badly. There was no need to hide the picnic. Had they invited the village, they might have lived to share the meal—and the joy. But then again, if they had been wise, there would be no story to tell. And that would be a shame, because my mother's stories were the best kind—funny, sad, and unforgettable, all at once.

 

One Book to Read Before You Die

Many of us have read countless books over the years—some truly transformative, others so forgettable they could double as sleeping pills. I’m no exception. A few books have left such a deep mark on me that I still carry their lessons around like emotional luggage (the carry-on kind, not the lost-at-the-airport kind). Among my all-time favorites are The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma, a fable about chasing your dreams and finding your true purpose—ideally before your knees give out, and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, an exhilarating novel dripping with optimism. The latter gently insists that anything is possible if you want it badly enough: just follow your dreams, listen to your heart, and apparently ignore logistics, budgets, and common sense. Then there are timeless masterpieces like Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, and Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations—each a brilliant, essential read for anyone trying to navigate life’s glorious mess.

Most of these I’ve read once or twice, but one book keeps calling me back like an old friend who knows all my flaws and doesn’t judge. That book is J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. At first, the title didn’t grab me—it sounded vaguely like a farming manual for depressed guardians. But once I dove into the first few lines, I found myself laughing out loud at its raw, goddam cynical expressions. Now, whenever I feel blue, I reach for this book. It keeps me company. It helps me forget—especially that embarrassing thing I said in 2007.

The Catcher in the Rye is a goddam must-read before you die. The language is vulgar, crude, yet strangely humorous—like a grumpy uncle who somehow makes you feel better about your own failures. Set in the 1950s, the story is narrated by a young man named Holden Caulfield, a character many believe mirrors aspects of Salinger’s own life. Holden is a complex figure—seemingly a failure, a restless outsider who struggles with alienation, loneliness, and a distinct lack of a GPS for life. At times, he’s disaffected, disgruntled, and deeply sarcastic, retreating into a world of his own making—one he calls full of “phony” people and ideas. (Spoiler: according to Holden, almost everyone is phony. Including, possibly, the guy who invented sliced bread.)

The book was admired by former U.S. President George H.W. Bush, who called it “a marvelous book.” I couldn’t agree more, and let’s be honest—any book that gets a president to say “goddam” in his head is doing something right. I love its voice, its raw honesty, and how Holden’s frustration spills out in unforgettable phrases: “goddam,” “it kills me,” “how I hate this,” “he’s a moron,” “pain in the ass,” “bastard,” “crazy”—expressions that keep you laughing, even through the sadness. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s absolutely worth reading. Just don’t expect Holden to like you. He doesn’t like anyone. But somehow, that’s exactly why you’ll love him.

Colours

Spring season is here. The birds should be singing. The flowers should be budding. The world should be wearing its colorful underwear on the outside. But not in Bangalore. Here, there is no natural flower budding. None. Zero. All you can see are flowers on pots—trapped, tamed, and terribly lonely. And all these pots spring from high-storied buildings like rebellious children hanging out of windows. There are hardly any colors on the ground. The ground is gray. The buildings are gray. My mood is also slightly gray. In Bhutan, at this time of the year, it would be a celebration of spring. Indescribably beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes poets weep and photographers bankrupt their SD cards. But here? Here we have Holi hangovers.  Holi, the Indian festival of colors, has come and gone. But its fever still lingers—like a relative who refuses to leave after a wedding. You can still see so many nooses of flowers in florist shops. (Nooses, because at those prices, you might as well hang yourself.) And many raags—bags of color powder—displayed proudly on roadside stalls. You can also see many college students with faint, unwashed colors on their faces. Some look like rainbows that got into a fight. Others look like they lost. Colours make our life. They add beauty to our existence. We love colours. We crave them. We chase them during festivals, weddings, and the occasional Instagram filter. But it seems one of the teachers in my previous school was damn dull when it came to colors. The teacher simply didn't care about them. And this is where our story begins.

In one of the final exams back in 2008—math paper, believe it or not—there was a question on coloring different shapes: triangle, circle, square, and so on. For class one students. Little kids. Innocent souls. Some students were provided with colors. Not enough, of course. Many didn't have any. I didn't know how poor our education system was in some remote schools—like Tsirangtoe Lower School in Tsirang. I learned the hard way. Before the exam, the storekeeper said something that still echoes in my ears: "Government can't buy everything now." He said it with a straight face. And he was damn right. But where could some poor students get colors in their lives? That was another gripping story. The kind that makes you stare at the ceiling at 2 AM. But good things had a turn after a year. Farm roads soon came to Tsirangtoe's villages, bringing in a good amount of cash. People started working, selling products, and even the poor began sweeping hundred-rupee notes from their hands like autumn leaves. Government has a way, always. I knew from this instance. Slowly. Painfully. But eventually.  Now, coming back to that colour exam. A teacher also has a way, always. So the teacher slowly dictated to those who had no colors to write the words—RED, GREEN, BLUE, etc.—inside the blank shapes. Problem solved. Creativity killed. Moving on. Helen Keller knew all the names of the colors. But she hardly knew what red was or blue was—because she became blind before she could grasp the full perception of the color world. And here, in Tsirangtoe, we had children with two perfectly good eyes who were being taught exactly like Helen Keller.

After the exam, I pulled a student aside—behind the exam building, like a secret agent conducting a sting operation. I gave him a little test. I asked him if he could name all the colors. He did. Perfectly. Like a trained parrot. Red, blue, green, yellow, purple, orange—the whole rainbow. Then I picked up a blue rose from the nearby garden. (Yes, a blue rose. They exist. I hadn't seen one before either.) I asked him the color of it. He gave the flower a deep, long look. Like he was searching for answers in its petals. He hesitated for a moment. Then he smiled—a little nervously—and said, "...Umm... red, sir." I smiled back—the kind of smile that hides a small internal scream—and said, "Roses are not always red. There are blue roses, white roses too. This is blue." The student then directly cussed me. Not with bad words, but with something worse: honesty. He said he didn't care about anything besides marks in the exam. And he confidently announced that he wrote whatever the teacher dictated. He was true. Just marks would do. Nothing else mattered. Not understanding. Not learning. Not even a beautiful blue rose.

And this was it. Our students—a few unfed, under-resourced students—if asked to name, could name all twelve different colors. But if asked to identify among twelve different colors, they had no choice but to think hard and say blue for red, green for yellow, black for white. Because, because, and because—they have not seen practically. Even if they have two big bull's eyes staring right at the object. Our teaching lacks practicability and applicability. We are made of theories. We build castles of words on foundations of air. There were many instances where computer degree holders couldn't operate a computer. What a shame! Jobs demand experiences—not so much theories, not so much dictating from chairs. Some of our Lyonpos and Ministers are simply speaking good poetry. from their chairs. Beautiful words. No soil. No roots.

The purpose of learning is knowing something. Isn't it? Knowing. Not memorizing. Not repeating. Not parroting. The colors. How can children develop cognition and recognize things? Whose weakness was it? The concerned teacher? The storekeeper? The examination system? Or the entire education system of the country? We must think of it. And avoid being blind—despite having our two bulging eyes to identify all. A good shot here: Helen Keller was blind and deaf too. But someone colored her life. Someone showed her the world without showing her a single color. If she could learn, why can't we teach? Let us not raise parrots. Let us raise children who can look at a blue rose and say, with confidence and joy, "That is blue. And it's beautiful."  

Fry in the Summer

Though this lousy summer is still a little far on the calendar, I feel this damn summer is already here in Bangalore. It has arrived early—like an uninvited guest who refuses to take off their shoes. This year, unlike last year, the weather has become much hotter. Last year, it drizzled at this time. Gentle rain. Cool breezes. Hope. This year? Nothing. Just heat. Dry, miserable, soul-sucking heat. And everybody's talking about how lousy the weather has become. It surely is! Damn this global warming. Damn it straight to a cooler place. Last week, there were two holidays. On Tuesday, it was Holi. On Friday, it was Good Friday. And you bet it—they were goddamned holidays. Not because holidays are bad. But because I never celebrated either of them. They were lousy holidays spent on my lousy bed in my lousy room. Sitting on that bed, I tried to engage myself as much as possible in my own activities. The problem was, I didn't know what those activities were. So I did what any sane person would do: I opened the internet. Then I closed the damned laptop. Then I opened it again. Then I flipped through pages that were lying scattered next to my bed—uselessly, like a confused penguin. I read some phony writings. I walked to and fro in my room like a caged tiger. I wrote something bullshit (and when I write, I type on my keyboards—plural, because I have two and use neither). I opened the refrigerator and drank a cold drop of water. Just one drop. The rest was too warm. I visited the toilet. Came back to my lousy bed. Then did it all over again. Goddamned it. I felt I was inside a cell. I did. Then I thought: I need to do something. So I gave myself a long walk. In the sweaty, blistering sun. Brilliant idea. Outside, children were playing cricket. Running. Shouting. Sweating. Enjoying themselves. It really killed me. How could those little craps bear the heat of the sun? They have no sweat glands? No sense of self-preservation? Are they secretly lizards? I walked to a shop to read the temperature. The number on the wall flickered. It was 31. Not so bad, I heard. New Delhi had just reached half boiling point. Some other parts of the world were even worse. I don't know how people live in those blistering places. The thought of it killed me. It did. Right there. Next to the shop selling cold drinks I couldn't afford. The room has been sweltering like anything. The fan's blades cannot be seen when they move—they become a ghostly blur of disappointment. So you look for a cool shower. You imagine it. You dream of it. Cold water. Relief. Salvation. But the shower is not as cool as you expected. The heated warm water drizzles out heavily. Bet me. The warmness is enough to make you sweat more than before you entered. You step out dirtier than you went in. God, I hate that. I hate that with the heat of a thousand suns—which, ironically, is the problem. By evening, mosquitoes dance all around like they own the place. I don't know where they come from. I close every goddamn tiny hole. I seal windows. I block doors. I stuff socks into gaps I didn't know existed. Do they come from the sink's hole? The drain? The neighbor's soul? I use coils. Sprays. Creams. Electric bats. Ancient curses. Nothing works. They always loiter around, hunting for prey—and I am their buffet. They literally kill my sleep. Night after night. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Right next to my ear. That sound. That evil, high-pitched, demonic sound. One day, I woke up in the morning and saw three mosquitoes sleeping next to me. Permanently dead. Their tiny bodies were filled with red blood. My blood. I nearly puked. It killed me. I meant it. So here I am. Hot. Tired. Mosquito-bitten. Waiting for winter in a city that forgot what winter means. Damn summer. Damn Bangalore. And damn those three little vampires who died happy.

This World is Yours

To My Son

The sun has the whole universe,
and you too have all—
in front of you, a vast stage
to play the game you have never played.

You have everything:
generosity, merriment, tears, hurt,
love, care, good, bad—all of it.
It's how you see,
how you move forward.


To me,
you are always joyful,
with a piece of a good heart.
You are optimistic as you are,
and as powerful as a man needs to be.
A person's personality
shines through joys and goodness.


You are good in all.
To become the best, you try.
And sometimes in life—independence.
Bother not what others do;
bother only what you do.

Let no one hurt you in the end.
Let others speak well of you.
Self-hope sometimes lifts you—
you need that expectation.


Your future is as shiny as coral,
for you have everything
that a man sometimes doesn't have:
health, wealth, character,
good rapport, confidence, persuasiveness—
these will truly win you through life.

May God bless you always.
And my wish is God's wish, my son.

The Canned Dream

People care about the fruits, not about how a tree is nurtured and taken care of (I wrote a similar topic in this blog called "The Roots of a Seed").

We admire the harvest but forget the soil, the water, the sunlight, and the countless hours of care that went into growing the tree. This is human nature: we celebrate results while ignoring the process. But what happens when the fruit we so eagerly awaited turns out to be a disaster? Or worse, when the entire tree is axed or uprooted from the soil? What then?

The hope of life is the root. If the root is uprooted, there is no hope more hopeless than that. When a person pours their heart, sweat, and years into something—only to see it crumble—the despair is immeasurable. For some, the most desirable thing in life arrives not as a reward but as a tragedy. Many friends have described such moments as "killing the life," "demoting the life," or simply, "what is this?" Then come the blames—blame on your life, blame on the people around you, and finally, blame on God.

A few of my friends repeatedly blurt out, "I know everything, but what's wrong with this result?" It is like saying, "Life is empty, but why this suffering?" The contradiction haunts them. They believed that knowledge and effort alone would guarantee success. Yet here they stand, empty-handed.

It is almost time to complete our courses, and for many dreamers, the end of the course will feel like the end of their lofty dreams. But that is not so. It never ends. I tell myself that always. Endings are merely new beginnings disguised as closures.

My house owner was once a rickshaw puller. He told me his story. Now he owns twenty-seven buildings. He eats gold, I think. No one can predict life. One day you are pulling a rickshaw; the next, you own a city block. So I say: just dream and relax, but be ready to jump and hold tight when that dream knocks at your door. My door always remains open to welcome dreams. I hope I have not missed mine. Sometimes, the future—which seems illusory and out of reach—does not concern me at all. What concerns me is whether I am ready when opportunity arrives.

Anyway, I mock those "canned dreamers"—people who speak of dreams but take no action, who wait for success to fall into their laps. I think to myself, "Nobody knows everything; only God knows." But deep in my heart, I ask many times: how unequal it is that God seems not to know some people—those who truly deserve recognition and reward. Yet there is always a "but" in life. Why so much contrast and comparison? Why do the undeserving often prosper while the deserving struggle?

"God is the one," say politicians, as if they have a direct line to the divine. But ask any ordinary person, and they will tell you that their god is the best—implying that all others are false. That is a huge debate. When it comes to answering for an unseen thing like God, I give up. I cannot prove or disprove. I can only observe the world as it is: unequal, unpredictable, and often unfair.

And that brings me to George Orwell's Animal Farm. Let me leave you with this famous line: "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."

Perhaps that is the only truth we need to remember.