Memories

Fresh memories come back

of the path we wondered together.

Those were days of delight with you.

I cherish them. I live in the memories.

And the rest, I leave to God.

The Worst Win

The second-term MP election is just a few weeks away, and by now, people must have mastered the fine arts of political cunning, shrewdness, and tactfulness—or at least pretended to. Voters should already have a clear idea of what makes the right candidate. Fortunately, people had excellent choices: four parties in their hands. Let's hope they picked the best two in the preliminary round. No pressure.

Back in 2008, with powerful and influential candidates in the fray, people's minds were completely hijacked—sorry, "taken over"—by DPT. And that was good. People's choice was right. DPT ruled the country with much peace and happiness, bringing development to many rural areas. On the flip side, DPT also taught Bhutanese people the value of money—and that is genuinely good. Bhutanese by nature are spendthrifts who never cared much about balances or savings. Then came the financial crunch. It was a blessing in disguise, like a strict parent who finally teaches you to save your pocket money.

Now, the two political parties' promises look lofty and sometimes downright wobbly. If their manifestos were to come true, every Bhutanese could just sit back, relax, and be spoon-fed. Government budget to each gewog, a health centre in every chiwog, community-based services, blacktopping of farm roads, 100% jobs—and etc., etc., etc. (I'm waiting for the one that promises a free pony for every household.)

But if lessons are to be learned, there are scores of very bad examples of elected members who joined politics for the love of power and money. A few turned out to be worse than statues—at least statues don't secretly fill their stomachs. Some even bought three or more bulldozers and excavators and are now running businesses on projects like Punatsangchhu. A few others relied on lip service and fake promises to grab votes. People noticed. These kinds of malfunctions—especially from the ruling party—will shrink our small nation faster than a cold shower.

Bhutan didn't know much about these pitfalls during the first election. Now people know. There are tensions lurking between the horse and the bird (whatever that means). Blame games are being played. Differences exist, though everyone tries to reach a common conclusion. There are talks in every small gathering about choosing a leader with a good heart, responsibility, capability, understanding—basically a superhero without a cape.

Meanwhile, the group that is supposed to remain apolitical—civil servants—are apolitical in name only. In reality, they are the most politically active bunch in society, influencing voters left and right. The majority of voters believe that educated people's choice must be right, often ignoring grassroots needs. The same goes for the religious body. In the name of religion, anti-political religious people become very political indeed. For example, some might hint that if you vote for Mr. X, he will bring good luck, good power, and good things to your village—maybe even that pony.

Politicization is important. Therefore, voters shouldn't be moved by any shaft of false hope. By now, people must also know that an individual shouldn't decide the candidate alone. Rather, it is the responsibility of people coming together and choosing their representative. Democracy is sometimes described as communities gathering together, imagining many voices pouring into a unified whole. Democracy should permeate the world beyond politics, making itself felt in the way people think, speak, work, fight, and even make mistakes. No nepotism, no relations, no bribery, nothing—but electing through collective decision is the true principle of democracy. Because it's for the greater goodness and well-being of the whole, not just one individual.

And that, dear reader, is no laughing matter—even if the journey to get there often is.

Limericks

I wrote these limericks when I was feeling tired and bored. They don’t have metrical feet at times.

There once was a girl named Yangzom,
Who was a good friend of Pangzom.
She was ugly and lazy—
Quite frankly, quite crazy—
So Yangzom just stuck close to Pangzom.

When I dream, I dream in my sleep;
The dreams unknowingly creep.
They have no fixedness
To calm the sadness—
They just go on till desires reap.

My eyes are burning bright like fire;
She's the object of my desire.
She sat on the grass,
Covered her ass,
Then someone set my desire on fire.

A crafty man Jigme made a speech,
Promised to stick like a leech.
He wagged to get support,
Then ran to a port,
And built his own house near the beach.

There was a boy with a toy once—
The toy was a big fat ounce.
He tried on some frocks,
With that, he rocks—
Then removed its penis in flounce.

There was an old man from nowhere
Who kept pics of chicks everywhere.
He went to slumber,
Counted the number
Of pics on his wall—what a scare!

A fox went to search for carnivore;
Soon the cruel fox found a war.
"You rock," said a cock.
"You'll soon get a shock,
For I've declared a big war—so roar!"

Grandma and the Frog

The story was told by my mother when I was a child. I have roughly reproduced it here.

Grandma had a big house. It was surrounded on all sides by all kinds of trees—cypress, oak, fig, mango, walnut, and others.

She loved her trees.

Inside, however, she had almost nothing—just a few empty pots and pans. Her rice bag was nearly empty. She was very poor.

One day, Grandma went outside to look at her trees. She noticed a dry branch on the cypress tree. She was very sad and asked, "How did your branch become dry?"

The tree replied, "The thunder struck me."

Grandma was heartbroken. She said, "If your branches can dry up, then let me also be struck."

So she hit her knee very hard. Soon, her knee swelled up big. Grandma cried out in pain.

All day and all night, she sat near the oven, weeping. "It hurts so much!" she shouted at last. "Take back your pain!"

She struck her knee again, even harder.

The skin opened, and out jumped a frog. It landed right on the oven. "Let me burn this frog in the fire," Grandma said angrily.

She threw the frog into the fire. It burned like dry grass.

The frog quickly croaked, "Take me to the third room!"

Grandma carried it upstairs and placed it there. Instantly, the room filled with all kinds of grains—rice, wheat, maize, and millet.

"Take me to the first floor before I burn completely," the frog said again.

Grandma ran downstairs and set it there. The room filled with farm animals—a cow with a calf, a hen with four chicks, a pig with two piglets, and a horse with a foal.

"Take me to the garden," said the frog.

Grandma ran outside and placed the frog in her garden. The garden filled with all kinds of vegetables—radishes, cabbages, potatoes, pumpkins, leafy greens, and turnips.

By then, the frog had burned completely and turned to ashes.

Grandma felt both sorry and happy. She now had grains, vegetables, and animals to keep her company. Her home was no longer empty.

Yet, for a long time, she was not completely happy. She missed her sick cypress tree. One day, she went to visit it. To her delight, the tree had no dry branches anymore.

Grandma smiled with happiness.

My Love is Not

My love is not
quantifiable,
justifiable,
describable,
payable,
buyable,
demonstrable,
measurable,
or calculable.

So reasonable?
No.
Love doesn't live in ledgers
or fit inside a proof.
You cannot weigh it on a scale
or return it for a refund.

---

My Love Is

My love is:
undie-able,
viable,
doable,
lovable,
appreciable,
and forever.

It does not fade like a receipt.
It does not crack under examination.
It breathes in the ordinary—
a quiet hand, a shared silence,
a meal eaten slowly together.

It is not reasonable,
and that is its reason.
It does not ask to be proven,
only to be felt.
It does not demand return,
only to remain.

So if you ask me what my love is worth—
I will say:
Everything I have.
And if you ask me to explain it—
I will simply stay.

A Lost Hope

Failure is an orphanage—
all wishes grilled,
left alone, neglected.
A victim of sorrows and anguishes,
so paltry, so lamentable—a soul.

Redundant among the masses,
shouting at the loudest,
yet no one listens.
As if blind, dumb, and deaf,
you endure the blackest life.
Hopeless has no wish.



Time waits.
Time waits, but not forever alike.
It hides the lies,
untold the truth—
like the sun concealed behind clouds.
Yet it will rise shortly—
the joy of seeing the world,
the pleasure of being alone with oneself.



Failure and success,
good and bad,
high and low,
rich and poor—
all will disappear.
But these tests of fate will continue
as long as one is alive.



Blame it on time,
each and every day.
Too many promises—
promises to love,
promises to play,
promises to succeed.
An endless file of promises.

Odd, how we are drowned with dreams
and drenched with so many failures.