My Country, My Town

I was eager to purchase the DSLR (Digital single-lens reflex camera), and it was my dreamed to have one. And I have this Cam for about 8 months and I have never regretted the decision, though I paid a huge some of Nu.35, 0000/-

MY DSLR

I have this Canon EOS 600D SLR with Kit I EF-S18-55mm IS II Lens Camera with 18 megapixel and 10x zoom. Photography is one of my favorite pastimes, but my SLR has been, most of the time is retained inside the cupboard, as I have been busy with my four classroom walls. I have only a chance to click during celebrations and functions. I love the feel of the camera. It is extremely user-friendly and offers the option of auto as well as manual focus. The camera has full HD recording with an added feature. It has an extraordinary color and image quality. This SLR camera also has auto flash and even an option of mounting external flash for specific photography, ensuring versatile use. And there is more to it. I am new to it.

I am a beginner photographer. And thought of becoming a professional photographer, but I know owing to lots of works it has been laying in the grave. And it will for so many years. I try to click and use my photographs. I try to shoot very unusually, creative, interesting, and thought-provoking scenes and outlooks. I have many collections of such photographs. I try to send some to the National newspaper, Kuensel, which the Kuensel had published those photos in My Country, My Town column. I send some of the common but creative ones. I send it to better something further through critique, and analysis. And if you have any interesting photos, you too can send them. Some of my photos in My Country, My Town are here beneath.
 

My Three Pics I have sent

The Ultimate Almighty

Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Padma Siddhi Hung—
Bless me, my Guru.
Grant me my wish,
for I am praying from my heart.

Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Padma Siddhi Hung—
Blessed to be born
in the land of Buddha.
I thank you, my Guru.

Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Padma Siddhi Hung—
Now I have my Lama
to reach the godly nirvana.
I submit for the rays to attain.

Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Padma Siddhi Hung—
Mind of compassionate humanity,
the good deeds of today
will help now and in the next life.

Om Ah Hum Benza Guru Padma Siddhi Hung—
Engaged in a dreamlike life,
so is the samsaric suffering seems real.
To you, I pray for this liberation.

Students are our Best Teachers

Darla School Assembly

Class in Progress

My Cohort of class IV B

We spend more than nine months with students, and honestly, they’ve taught us more than we’ve taught them—how to use the latest gadgets, how to dress fashionably, how to walk with swagger, and probably how to roll our eyes without getting caught.

Take my Class IV students. They literally check my patience—daily, sometimes hourly. They’re passionate little humans who grumble a lot and pretend not to listen. Managing 48 of them is like herding cats on a sugar rush. By the end of the day, I regret not being able to give each one enough attention. When I assign group work, the classroom turns into a fish market—complete with animal sounds, screeches, and the occasional mysterious squeak. Exhausting? Yes. But here’s the kicker: when I get serious, they actually listen. And they learn. So maybe there’s hope for us both.

Then there’s my Class X students—the introverts. They’re like well-trained puppies: if I turn my head, they turn theirs. They listen way too much. They work hard, I think (they’re so quiet I can’t always tell). I secretly wish for a whole class of them—students who never question me, even when I’m clearly wrong. Bless their silent hearts. I told them to be good, do good, and good things will come back. They nodded. No arguments. Beautiful.

Some of my past students are now teachers—like me, but younger and probably less grumpy. Others have vanished into professions in places I’ve never heard of. Many have jobs, many are still students, and a surprising number have found me on Facebook and followed my blog. I like to think they miss me. I definitely miss them.

All in all, I was lucky to have such sincere, diligent students. Almost as lucky as they were to have such a good teacher. And I’m enjoying the fruit of teaching—one Facebook like at a time.

Something to Think Over

Hilarious (and Sometimes Painful) Thoughts That Strike Me Time and Again

I know it's bad to think about these. And yet, here we are.


1. DPT wasn't Druk Phunsum Tshogpa—it was Druk Prohibition Tshogpa. Because of its banning policy, it suffered a landslide-like thrashing defeat. And now PDP—the People's Darling Party—has become the People's Dead Party, where everyone tells all colors of lies, mostly the black kind. They feed themselves an ocean of wealth first, then give others a lean drop. Generous, really. Just not in the way you'd hope.

2. Parliamentary democracy has essentially become PDP's democracy. Not people's democracy. The power of PDP's bureaucracy has greatly extended—into media interference, salary issues, tax issues, fuel issues, and probably into my kitchen by now.

3. I love this from Kamala Das's "An Introduction":
"I don't know politics but I know the names / Of those in power and can repeat them like / Days of the week, or names of months…"
So yes, power has faces, and faces have names. Doesn't matter what policies they stand for. But it's useful to know their names—just like knowing that Thursday comes before Friday. Useless? Maybe. Comforting? Slightly.

4. A recent graduate's life plan: first, try for a good government job. Second, try self-entrepreneurship. Third, if all else fails—become a teacher. The unwanted, last-resort choice. See the condition of teachers? We're not just at the bottom of the ladder. Someone removed the ladder.

5. In a corrupt society, if you're anti-corruption, you're lost. You must be in the system to get what you want. This is where you belong. Welcome to the club. The initiation fee is your conscience.

6. Why are all war movies based on wars in the Middle East—Afghanistan, Gaza, Siberia, Iraq?
(Quick geography check: Siberia isn't in the Middle East. But Hollywood doesn't care, and neither should you.)

7. "Bhutan is the last heaven on earth," many say. Every country is a heaven of its own. Chauvinistic? Possibly. But also, have you seen our traffic jams in Thimphu? Even heaven has rush hour.

8. A rich heart is rich. A poor heart is poor. No matter what you have—or don't have—in your bank account. Sadly, banks don't accept kindness as a deposit.

9. Kindness done for the act of God isn't kindness. Self-aware kindness—compassion without God, without coercion, just natural kindness—that's what I believe is real. No receipts required.

10. Negative thoughts: unwarranted, self-imposed mental trash. And yet, mine pay no rent and refuse to leave.

11. By name, civil servants are apolitical. But in reality, they influence voters the most. They are the most politically active faction. The crust of politics is the educated mass. So how can anyone be truly apolitical? Exactly. 

12. Politicians are inclined to the helms of services. They are servants to our people—not in any case their lip servants. Not non-performers. (But let's be honest, some are very good at pretending.)

13. I've learned: a good politician—one who earns votes—has a sugary mouth, looks busy, does nothing, makes false promises, and loots for personal services. Sweet talk, sour deeds.

14. Substitution, replacement, changing candidates (DPT/PDP style) is dirty politics. A loser cannot become a winner. Unless you change the rules. Or the referee.

15. A curriculum relevant to our lifestyles, cultures, and mindsets is good. Microcosm: if we work on knowing and improving ourselves, it will have a global effect. "Act locally, think globally." So far-reaching change begins with a Bhutanized curriculum, not American syllabuses. Otherwise, we'll be torn between two worlds—alienated from our own culture, history, language, and people. We'll live physically but see ourselves through others' eyes. We can relate our curriculum to the outside world. I think. Maybe. Hopefully.

16. A test never fails or passes a candidate. It's just an evaluation to help you improve. Unless you fail. Then it's clearly the test's fault.

17. Sometimes, it's the other way around: the system fails, and the teacher leads. Like a candle in a storm. Or a flashlight with dying batteries.

18. How could a student fail after a year of rigorous teaching? This is worth thinking about. Sure, minor failures happen along the way. But we are determined to succeed. The day we stop thinking about students' success is the day we should stop teaching. Or at least stop calling it teaching.

19. A teacher doesn't really teach. The students teach him—if he knows how to listen. A guide, an advisor, a supporter, a director. Always looking for new ways to teach what students have already incorporated into their lives. 

20. Basic education is about forming knowledge, mind, character, skills—being responsible, caring, good, doing good. At the very least, becoming a complete human.

21. Did you fall and break your heart? Cry and hate your life? Live painfully and get hurt? Think of revenge? Suffer from memory sickness?
But never forget there is love. And you must prove it through your tears. Always remember there is hope. And remember that love is good—even when it's not easy.

22. There is a commonness in love, feeling, and human emotion. We are strangers united by human concerns. Bound by love, affection, understanding, and empathy. There's no unfeeling for the feeling of love. No boundary, no wall, no stranger, no religion—nothing stands in love. It's just a beautiful, heavenly feeling.
Love binds; hate separates. Small sentence, too big to handle.
Love is money? No. The British man who loves and vows to marry a Bhutanese girl—he crosses oceans and mountains to be with her. And when he comes, he learns: love is not money. Love is love. Cannot be defined.
But acho… we are related, separated only by death.

Mad In States

Mad in States

Note: Live the life you love, don't just love the life you live. Many of us dream of going to or living in America and Australia; some people get the chance. A Bhutanese in the States has become American. He has forgotten his country's traditions and cultures, even its language and his own homeland. This poem asks: if everyone does this, will one day everyone in Bhutan become American, losing what it means to be truly Bhutanese? And who, then, is a Bhutanese?

To be an American
is easy to be.
It was a decade ago that he settled
in the land called a "flowery life"—
a dream of every Bhutanese,
but a few have fulfilled it,
and some have done even more.

He was born to a Ngalop family,
brought up, educated, and survived
up to fifty-seven years.
A man has a wish at this age!
His instincts and roots were Bhutanese,
and all his ways were too.
But one day, somehow, he got a chance.
He flew.

After decades in America,
he adapted to Americans.
He was an American.
Parents, relatives—all forgotten.
People, land,
mother tongue, religion,
all ways—forgotten.

"New age," where he lives—
he floats there,
lingering between two ways.
He is more inclined to the latter.
Bhutan does not exist on his mental map.
This is how a person changes his life.
But who am I?
Roots do not change.

On the tip of Americans' tongues,
he remains different—
not a "real" one.
Mongoloid, Dravidian, or Arabian?
Variant cultures in America
and the buoyant life floated with riches.
One does care.
And who cares of life—
the root?
To have a rushing hour is okay.

Strength to Live

The strength of a man isn't how many buddies he has—
It's how good a buddy he is to his kids.

The strength of a man isn't how respected he is at work—
It's how respected he is at home.

The strength of a man isn't how hard he hits—
It's how tender he touches.

The strength of a man isn't how many women have loved him—
It's whether he can be true to one.

The strength of a man isn't the weight he can lift—
It's the burdens he can understand and overcome.

Best or Worst?

The 2014 World Cup is almost coming to an end. Brazil suffered the worst defeat in World Cup football history—7–1, if you’re keeping score at home or in therapy—which has brought great sadness to many of their fans. But a thought came to my mind: "Why only the best?"

I feel the best is selected precisely because the worst exists. Life has two sides, and credit belongs to both. It is because of suffering and worry that we come to know calm, peace, and the divine. Also, without bad games, we wouldn't appreciate the good ones. So thank you, Brazil. You took one for humanity.

Not only the top should be inscribed, shown, and broadcast. We should also write down the worst; they too should be appreciated and acknowledged. I am writing this because of the bad—good things are here as well, and vice versa. Everyone must be appreciated and respected. Even that uncle who oversalts the tea. Even that neighbor who plays the same song on repeat.

How does the world appear to those who are considered the worst or the ugliest? This earth consists of peaks and valleys, the fine and the weak. You encounter people, animals, countries, trees, air, water—everything is somehow divided into the rich and the poor, the superior and the inferior. Consider the many worst and deadly people around the world. Besides our film villains, there are scruffy and scrappy people in our own neighborhoods. You know who I mean. The ones who don't return shopping carts.

And what about animals? Which is the ugliest animal ever seen? I vote for Mr. Snail. It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, to be sure, but this animal would not win a beauty contest even if it were the only one entered. Snails have faces only a mother—Mother Nature—could love, and in the contest of life, that is really the only thing that matters. Let's be honest: a snail is basically a slug with a backpack. And yet, it moves. Slowly. But it moves. That’s more than some people I know.

And I would vote for Brazil for their worst game ever played, but I do appreciate their active participation. They showed up. They tried. They conceded seven goals. That takes a certain kind of courage.

In schools, students are loved only if they excel in their studies. There are teachers in my school who only talk about good students and put more effort into them. They forget the weak ones, or have nothing to do with them. They call them flunkers and hardly check their notes or books. How can those students improve if they are left on their own? You can’t grow a plant by ignoring it and calling it names. Unless it’s a cactus. And even cacti need water sometimes.

The world would seem more harmonious if all people learned from one another—if they recognized what is best and what is worst, working to improve the worst and shape it fairly alongside the best. In this seemingly upside-down world, only the best are loved, even though our worst deserves attention just as much as the best.

One person changed this rule. The Lord Buddha left behind all the best things on this earth. He was a prince of a kingdom, living an esteemed life. Yet he did not want the best—he chose the worst, renouncing all worldly pleasures and wealth. Who would ever have guessed that he would become enlightened? Certainly not his palace chefs.

My own case may shed light on the road between what is best and what is worst. I was brought up with the utmost love by my beloved parents. I wore the best ragged clothes and was treated well. I wanted the best, and I got the best. I was fortunate to have a somewhat plentiful family—I say only in terms of provisions. What I needed, I received. I required the best and expected the best. I lavished much bread, wearing the best clothes, the best shoes, the best oils on school days. Yes, oils. Plural. I was that child.

I was truly convinced that I would always have the best. But what I am experiencing now is purely contradictory. All this life—who will upkeep my best? Like an unripe fruit that must mellow and drop, trifles will overcome my best. Now I face the worst: using less for worse clothes, worse shoes, and so on. I have come to understand that I am succumbing, lapsing, and relapsing into the worst with my meager monthly salary—unless I change my way. Or get a raise. Or find a snail that lays golden eggs.

Thus, I have learned that one should know both sides of a coin. Accept defeat to understand victory. Accept demeaning remarks to appreciate praise. Accept hopelessness to know that there is still hope. And accept that sometimes, you are Brazil. And sometimes, you are the snail. But either way, you keep moving.