Coincidence (Story)

Life has many twists and turns, and these twists and turns are the facts of realism. For every curve, there is a bend, and for every bend, there is a curve. For every significant day, there is an insignificant day. Because of the so-called unimportant days, a notable day exists in our lives. There are moments in life, thoughtless days, and unforgettable days.

Pema too has such a moment—an unforgettable day.

Pema, the celebrator of this day, is a brilliant boy of ten. Brilliant—yes, he is the topper of his class. Teachers gasp at his artwork. "What a beautiful drawing, Pema!" In every school drawing competition, the first prize is booked for him, always. That is Pema. Pema Tashi.

He is ten now, but he will never forget the day that shaped his life—blissfully. That was when he was eight years old.

He would care for, recollect, and muse over that day—the most important day of all his days. It was the day he heard that he had won a national-level poetry writing competition. He received the news on 12/11/2004. He was cherished, one of the happiest persons in the whole world. It was the turning point in his life. Because of that particular poem, he became a recognized figure. That beloved day encouraged him to continue writing from the heart and by his own hand. But it wasn't only the winning. On that day, something bizarre, unexpected, and special happened to him. Something greater than his victory.

On the night of November 11, 2004, he had a dream. He was trudging across dangerous, craggy rocks, sweating to cross them. His whole body was drenched. Then, from nowhere, a bird appeared—he couldn't name it—a white bird. The bird came beneath him and carried him to what felt like home. It was a beautiful home, filled with the radiance of candles and butter lamps. In front of him stood Jampelyang—the god of wisdom. Pema bowed low. Soon, he was awakened by a piece of music. He couldn't grasp the words. It was just a dream! To hear the music again, he tried to sleep, but sleep was gone. It was already dawn. All he could hear were knocks.

Pema opened the door. He was surprised to see a group of friends near the door, holding newspapers, all smiles and applause. He was down to earth! What had happened? Without delay, his friends told him what he would never forget for the rest of his life. They showed him the newspaper—his poem and his name were there. The previous weekend, he had sent a poem to the newspaper for the Kids' Poetry Competition. He had written about a tree in a treeless land: how a single tree changed the lives of many people, how it provided shelter for many lives. He described the shape of the tree, the surrounding landscape, and the weather conditions. It was a good poem, he thought—at least.

His poem was nominated as the best in the country. He had become like that single, lonely tree—now thronged by so many people in a short time. This day had changed him, just as his tree in the poem had changed many lives. In the struggle of his life, a white bird had appeared. This bird was his poem. He flew high. He was elated with the hive of life. The day became even more joyful when his English teacher read his poem and held him up as an example to his fellow students. Miss Dema read it three times! His teachers were proud. His classmates were proud. His school had something to be recognized for. Everyone congratulated him—all the teachers, a group of friends, a group of girls. His mother, brothers, and sisters were over the moon. His tree had brought change. His whole life had made a U-turn. After that, life had no more twists—it moved straight, no crooked paths, no hooks. He was to stay here, writing and receiving awards.

The day was swift. Merriness was everywhere, but one thing always lingered in his mind: his father's return. His father was said to have gone far away for further studies or some sort of training in the USA. Pema had been waiting for him for more than six years. His father had left when Pema was only two. His father sent letters. He sent photos. And only through those photos had Pema ever seen his father. His father sent love and hugs but never came. Pema's mother expected him to return anytime—for his children, if not for her sake. "The hope of my papa will remain as my dream," Pema told his mother one day. She always tried to make him think of other things and always told him that his father would come someday.

If Pema were to divide his mind into parts, about seventy percent was in a merry mood. Still, he felt incomplete that day. The sun was moving, touching the tip of the mountain. His heart melted down with the sun. His happiness began to melt too. He was sitting at the entrance, reading his poem "Tree." Lost. There was a rush of wind and a sweet aroma from the doorway. Pema looked up. He saw a gentleman, standing tall, looking at him, and smiling at him. He perfectly matched those photos. Behind the man, his mother beamed and burst out, "Here is your father!"

Pema ran toward him, and his happy tears ran down too. "What a coincidence of happiness!" Pema blurted out.

If his happiness had a volume, it would measure the entire space of the earth's joy.

From his long-awaited father, Pema had expected something—and his expectation did come true that day. His father gave him a white laptop from a black suitcase, so he could do more writing. Moreover, his father promised that he would stay with them for the rest of his life. Pema's happiness reached its brim. That day had chosen him—life had chosen him, God had chosen him. He was the chosen one, the most important one on that day. The day was unlike any other because of the series of momentous events. Pema soon narrated his day's events to his father and concluded with the remark, "This white bird is my white laptop." His mother laughed and said, "This white laptop is not a white bird." And his father said, "This laptop is a white bird." Everyone laughed.

That day was the most important and most colorful day of his life. If he ever had a remote control for his life, he would rewind and pause it to enjoy it slowly. He wondered if he would ever have a dream as beautiful as the one he had on that day. And he hoped that one day, the white bird would take him to the real world, where he could hear that beautiful music again.

NOW

I can foresee my time, sometimes—

my life.

It's as simple as we come and go,

ending days and nights.

And it is ceaseless:

thinking of the past,

thinking of the future—

days and nights

of darkness in my going forward,

it seems:

desolate, depressing, dying, penniless,

no one to turn to,

sunk in swarthiness, no one caring.

And the past was more dreadful than the future.

So why worry now?

Who needs yesterdays?

Who needs tomorrow?

Look at the stars

shining tonight.

Those thoughts—

I leave them all now,

and live now.

Now, it's bright

with self-love and self-care,

and with the trust and truth inside

that keep me alright—now.

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, but there are no natural flowers budding in Bangalore. All you can see are flowers in pots, and all these pots sit on high-rise buildings. There are hardly any colors on the ground. In Bhutan, this time of the year is a celebration of spring. It would be indescribably beautiful. Holi, the Indian festival of colors, still lingers. You can see many garlands of flowers in florist shops and many displays of color powders (raags). You can also see many college students with faint, unwashed colors on their faces.

Colors make our life. They add beauty to our lives. We love colors. But it seems one of the teachers in my previous school was quite dull when it came to colors. The teacher simply didn't care about them. I remember this:

In one of the final exams (2008) for mathematics, there was a question on coloring different shapes—triangles, circles, squares, etc.—for Class I. Some students were provided with colors, but not enough; many didn't have any. I didn't realize how poor our education system was in some remote schools like Tsirangtoe Lower School in Tsirang. The storekeeper said sadly before the exam that the store was out of stock of color boxes. "The government can't buy everything now," he said. He was damn right, but where could some poor students get colors in their lives? That was another gripping story. But good things took a turn after a year. Farm roads soon came to Tsirangtoe's villages, bringing in a good amount of cash through work and selling products. This made even the poor able to sweep hundred-rupee notes frequently from their hands. The government always has a way, I learned from this instance.

Now, coming back to that color exam: a teacher also always has a way. So, the teacher slowly dictated to those who had no colors that they should write the words RED, GREEN, BLUE, etc., inside the blank shapes. Helen Keller knew all the names of colors, but she hardly knew what red or blue was because she became blind before she could grasp the world of color perception.

Coming out of the exam hall, I pulled a student aside behind the exam building and gave him a test. I asked him if he could name all the colors, which he did perfectly well—like a parrot. Then I picked a blue rose from the nearby garden and asked him its color. He gave a deep look at the blue rose, hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "...um... red, sir." I smiled back and said, "Roses are not always red. There are blue and white roses too. This is blue." The student directly cussed me, saying that he didn't care about anything besides marks in the exam, and he confidently announced that he had written whatever the teacher dictated. He was right. Just marks would do.

And that was it. Some of our underfed students, if asked to name colors, 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, and black for white. Why? Because they have not seen colors practically, even though they have two big bull's eyes. Our teaching lacks practicality and applicability. We are made of theories. There are many instances where computer degree holders could not operate computers. What a shame! Jobs demand experience, not so many theories, and not so much dictating from chairs. Some of our Lyonpos and ministers simply speak good poetry from their chairs.

The purpose of learning is knowing something. Isn't that true? Knowing the colors. How can students develop cognition and recognize things? Whose weakness was it? The concerned teacher? The storekeeper? The examination system? Or the education system of the country? We must think about this and avoid being blind despite having two bulging eyes to identify everything. A good point here: Helen Keller was blind and deaf, yet someone colored her life.

Fry in the Summer

Though this lousy summer is still a little far off on the calendar, I can feel the damn season has already arrived in Bangalore. It's shown up early—like an uninvited guest who refuses to take off their shoes, then asks for a cold drink.

This year, unlike last, the weather has become much hotter. Last year around this time, it drizzled. Gentle rain. Cool breezes. Hope. This year? Nothing. Just heat. Dry, miserable, soul-sucking heat. And everyone's talking about how lousy the weather has become. It surely is! Damn this global warming. 

Last week brought two holidays. On Tuesday, Holi. On Friday, Good Friday. And you bet they were goddamned holidays. Not because holidays are bad. But because I didn't celebrate either of them. Not a single colour. Not a single prayer. Just two lousy holidays spent on my lousy bed in my lousy room.

Sitting on that bed, I tried to engage myself in my own activities. The problem was, I had no idea what those activities were. So I did what any sane, bored person would do: I opened the internet. Then I closed the damn laptop. Then I opened it again. Then I flipped through pages lying scattered next to my bed—uselessly, like a confused penguin at a desert resort. I read some phony writings. I walked to and fro in my room like a caged tiger that has given up on life. I wrote something that was complete bullshit (and when I write, I type on my keyboards—plural, because I own two and use neither). I opened the refrigerator and drank a single cold drop of water. Just one drop. The rest was too warm to call water. I visited the toilet. Came back to my lousy bed. Then did it all over again. Goddamn it. I felt I was inside a cell. A hot, badly decorated cell with no air conditioning.

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 buckets. Enjoying themselves. It really killed me. How could those little craps bear the heat of the sun? Do they have no sweat glands? No sense of self-preservation? Are they secretly lizards in human shorts?

I walked to a shop to read the temperature. The number on the wall flickered: 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 survive in those blistering places. The thought alone killed me. Right there. Next to the shop selling cold drinks that I couldn't afford because I spent all my money on mosquito repellent.

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. 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 it with the heat of a thousand suns—which, ironically, is the very problem I'm complaining about.

By evening, mosquitoes dance around like they own the place—and honestly, at this point, they probably do. 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 even 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 all-you-can-eat buffet. They literally kill my sleep. Night after night. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Right next to my eardrum. That sound. That evil, high-pitched, demonic sound that belongs in a horror film.

One day, I woke up in the morning and saw three mosquitoes sleeping next to me. Permanently dead. Their tiny bodies were swollen with red blood. My blood. I nearly puked. It killed me. Again. I meant it this time.

So here I am. Hot. Tired. Mosquito-bitten. Waiting for winter in a city that has forgotten what winter means. Damn summer. Damn Bangalore. And damn those three little vampires who died happy, with their bellies full of me.