Unsafe Glass Windows

Safe windows with the railings

Recently, in a house in Gedu, a boy was hospitalized after falling from a window. There have also been many other incidents of children dying from similar falls.

What kind of windows do you have in your home? Do they have railings or not? If you have noticed, many houses today have beautiful glass windows without any railings. They are like large doors set into the walls—no bars, no handrails, nothing of the sort. Because of these unsafe windows, I have also heard of people breaking into houses and stealing things. These windows are not only dangerous for small children but also for the elderly. A child might lean against a window, push it open, trip, and fall to their death. Personally, I feel that such windows invite untimely death and loss of property. They are mindless traps for both fatal accidents and burglaries.

Why do we build houses with such glassy windows, devoid of bars or protection? Is it simply because white windows look nice? Some people are so careless that they forget to close their windows or draw the curtains. And since electricity is very cheap here in Bhutan, we don't bother turning lights off at night. The result is that outsiders can see clearly inside. Some of those peeping are curious enough to wait all night for a show.

I believe our builders should reconsider the use of new glassy windows without bars. Windows should be not only beautiful but also safe and protective.

Unsafe Windows without railings

100 Years are Still 100 Years Back

Humanity: Overconfident, Underpowered, and Doomed (Probably)

We humans can never know the nature of the world. Its mysteries. Its miracles. Its annoying habit of hiding Malaysian airplanes for months on end.

We can never defeat the mysterious nature. We can never truly understand it. And the fact is, we cannot change nature—its work, its fate, or its complete indifference to our feelings.

Everything is predestined and programmed like it should be, they say. Who is "they"? Nobody knows. But they sound very sure of themselves.

For example, a Malaysian airplane has been missing for months now. Months! And tracking it is "difficult." How satisfactorily equipped are we, really? What developed technologies do we have? Satellites? Radar? The entire internet? Apparently not enough. Because in the end, we will have to follow the law of nature. Everything—planes, dreams, our pride—succumbs to Mother Nature. She doesn't care about your flight radar. She never did.

Humans Think We're Moving Ahead

Oh yes. We are so advanced. Our sciences and technologies are conquering the world. Any day now.

After 100 or more years, there would be technology that could build a beautiful house when you press a button. Just one button. Poof. A villa. With a garden. Maybe even a garage.

Everyone would have wings to fly. Not metaphorical wings. Actual, strap-on, carbon-fiber wings. Traffic jams? Gone. Fear of heights? Still there, but now with more screaming.

Everyone would have robots to work. Cook, clean, file taxes, pretend to listen to your problems. People would become so lazy that they would be resentful of switching a button. A button! The very thing that gave them everything. 

ETC. (The "ETC" here carries the weight of all our delusions.)

But Here's the Plot Twist

These 100 years are still 100 years backward.

For example, we cannot create another Earth. We cannot lengthen our life after 100 years or so. We cannot deny the fact that truth is truth. And we certainly cannot deny the almighty God—or Mother Nature, or whoever is currently in charge of cosmic reality.

Nature is so original. So stubbornly, annoyingly original. We humans merely duplicate what was already there. We see a bird, we make a plane. We see a fish, we make a submarine. We see a tree, we make... paper. Then we complain that the paper isn't as strong as the tree.

We try to change that original natural thing, which in turn destroys us. The pure gold is stained and tarnished. By us. With our own greedy, restless, button-pressing hands.

The Real Problem

I think we are making ourselves complicated because we are not able to understand the basic nature of nature. It's simple, really. But we hate simple. Simple doesn't sell. Simple doesn't get likes. Simple doesn't require a 500-page manual with a missing page 47.

One thing we must understand: we cannot go beyond the will of anyone—be it person, nature, or God.

And that, dear reader, is the punchline nobody wants to hear.

We are doomed.

Not with a bang. Not with a dramatic movie explosion. But slowly. Lazily. While resenting the button we have to press. While searching for a plane that vanished. While building wings we cannot fly.

Doomed.

But hey, at least we have robots. Eventually. Maybe. If nature allows.

Exam Time

Wishing banner

Darla school exams start today. Students are cracking their brains inside the rooms. Hopefully not literally—the cleanup would be terrible.

It is the outcome of a year's worth of learning. A whole year. Countless hours of classes,  homework, and pretending to understand algebra. And now, finally, the moment of truth: will they remember anything? Or will they simply stare at the paper and hand over the blank paper?

I wish them a bit of good luck. Not a lot—just a bit. Too much luck would be unfair to the students who actually studied. But a small, respectable sprinkle of fortune? Yes. May the guessed answers be correct. May the handwriting be legible. May the invigilator's stomach not rumble too loudly.

And here's the secret joy: it is good for students because they will be getting a long winter vacation. Weeks of sleeping in, eating endlessly, and forgetting everything they ever learned. By January, they won't remember what a noun is. And frankly, neither will I.

But Wait. There's a Catch.

This will be the busiest time for teachers.

Because while students are out building snowmen and enjoying warm ara by the bhukhari, we teachers will be locked inside rooms, surrounded by mountains of answer scripts, red pens bleeding onto pages, and our will to live slowly evaporating.

Lots of correction.

Alas.

Not just one alas. A thousand alas. A stack of alas so high it reaches the ceiling.

We will read essays about "My Best Friend" that somehow turn into conspiracy theories. We will decode handwriting that looks like a chicken walked across the paper after drinking too much ara. We will award marks for answers that make absolutely no sense but are written with such confidence that we hesitate to deduct.

And when we finish? More papers. Always more papers.

So yes. Good luck to the students. But really, send your prayers to the teachers.

We are going to need them. And possibly more red pens. And ara. 

Alas.

Our School Caretaker

There are people who work and never complain, and there are people who have nothing yet still work. Such a man is the caretaker at my school, Mr. Tsagay.

In every school, the caretaker is a very important person. Mr. Tsagay is the caretaker of Darla Middle Secondary School, and he is a very good man. He not only helps students but also shares the responsibility of running the school. There are three caretakers at the school, and Mr. Tsagay is the oldest. He has been in the service of this school for fifteen years or more.

Mr. Tsagay is popularly called Aue Tsagay, which means "Brother Tsagay." He is a true brother to the school; without him, the school would become handicapped. When on duty, he wears a clean blue shirt and pants.

He is very hardworking and punctual. He is always the first to arrive at school and the last to leave. He opens the rooms of the principal, staff, and others, and dusts them clean. He is sincere and regular in his work. He is a willing worker—a slave to duty. If anyone calls him for any kind of work, he willingly comes to help.

He delivers various notices, letters, and circulars from the principal to the teachers. He also keeps the school notice board up to date.

He is a well-rounded person who knows many things. Not only does he take care of the school, but he also works as a gardener, electrician, carpenter, and more. He is a jack of all trades. For all these reasons, he deserves a substantial salary.

He works very hard, yet his pay is low. Looking at the volume and variety of his work, he should be paid more than many high-ranking government workers. He does not expect any personal reward from the teachers, who are themselves poor.

Recently, while working with electrical wires outside the school compound, he received an electric shock and was immediately taken to Gedu Hospital. These days, he complains of abdominal pain and weakness. Everyone feels sorry for him.

All teachers and students like him. He always has a smiling face. Through his loyalty and honest work, he has made himself indispensable to the school.

This is our Aue Tsagay, photo from the file

Go Wherever You Like

Assorted pieces of poems from my past notebooks.

Go Wherever You Like

Go wherever you like,
but you must come back here.
Our way is one.

Do whatever you please,
take whatever you desire,
but you must keep those away.
Our way is one.

Act like a mountain.
Say what you want to all,
but you must know at last:
our way is one—
and all of these are useless.

---

Life Taught Me

Love taught me to fly
and to live.
Life taught me to cry
and to die.
There is nowhere I can hide.

---

Dream

The poem talks about a dream. The dreams were useless to him when he came to know. Only near his deathbed does he pray that if he has done something good, he may be born as a good person—or not.

As a child, I had a dream:
to fly in the sky and to travel by train,
to eat in palaces and
live like a royal king.

Afterwards,
I have been in the air.
I have been on trains.
I have eaten palace food,
and I have lived a king's life.

Now, what I dream is—
and this is not a dream—
it's a reality,
very important.

I pray:
never to die,
or for a good rebirth after death.

---

Did You Fall and Break Your Heart?

Did you fall and break your heart?
Did you cry and hate your life?
Did you live a painful life and get hurt?
Did you think of taking revenge?
Did you suffer from memory sickness?

But never forget: there is love,
and you must prove it through your tears.
Always remember there is hope,
and always remember it is good to love.

---

Love Where You Live

Love where you live.
Have compassion for everything.
Love the wall in front of you.
Love the stones, trees, dust, rivers—everything.
Then you will love yourself.

A Dissipated Life-A Story of Love and Sacrifice

A dog chased Latu out of the school gate. The dog growled close behind him for some time. Latu leaned against a tree and threw a slice of bread. The dog ran after it and munched greedily. Then it stayed quiet.

"This dog can become friendly after so many days," Latu thought.

The day had been brutal. By evening, the wind broke tree branches, clouds showered heavy rain, and thunder rumbled loudly. Latu was alone on his way home. But not really his home. Before long, he found himself on the path to an unknown journey—his actual, unfamiliar road. The heavy downpour soaked his body.

There, in an unknown place, Latu felt lost. He climbed a trembling treetop to see his home's light. He saw a faint glow, miles away. He didn't know where he was now. He only knew he was deep in a jungle. This was his first journey alone. His friend Kagtong was bedridden and couldn't come to school on the first day. Since Latu's parents had gone for training in a foreign land, he had been sent to this village to study. Only three days had passed since he arrived from the capital of Bhutan. He was to stay with his aging grandparents in this village.

Now, Latu listened and scanned every direction of the jungle. He was scared of ghosts and spooky things in the deep forest. He was afraid of wild animals. Latu was late today because of the distribution of textbooks—it was the first day of school, and as a new student, he received his books last.

It was already seven in the evening. He ran wildly wherever his thoughts took him. It was the fastest run he had ever made. Before he collapsed on the ground with exhaustion, he saw a house in front of him. It was built of stone and mud, with a thatched roof. He wanted to ask whoever lived there to direct him home. With great relief, he went inside. He pushed open the ajar door and was greeted by a young girl his age. She was cooking something. Seeing an uninvited guest, she shouted in fright for a moment.

He looked at her, thirsty and desperate. Dazzled and stunned, he saw that she was a simple-looking, slim girl with bunched hair—utterly lovely. He stood there speechless.

"Oh God, to be loved by her!"

"Who are you?" she mumbled.

"I have never seen such a girl in Thimphu," Latu burst out without thinking.

"What!"

The heavy rain suddenly softened to a drizzle. The pit-a-pat of the raindrops became like love. The wind became a breeze. The thunder became music. Everything turned into a trance of love and longing. He felt that today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or someday—he wanted to be with her. He watched her, and his happiness exploded.

She asked him many questions, which only made him more blank. He looked at her lips and her eyes. They were perfect. An angel had visited a poor home.

"I just wanted to ask you the way to Memey Dogdola's house," Latu quivered.

"Oh, you're the new guy from Thimphu, here to study. Go seven steps down from my house, then take the straight path to the right." She beamed.

"Okay, okay, I'll come tomorrow," he said hurriedly, hearing some noises outside.

Latu counted down the steps gladly when a powerful torchlight from the right side forced him to stop. His face was now in full light.

"So when we're away, this is what our daughter has been doing?" a man sneered.

It was her father and mother.

"Oh no, I came here to ask my way home," Latu said quickly.

"Who are you?" a woman's voice asked, flashing her torchlight on Latu's face.

"I'm Memey Dogdola's grandson," he said, and hurried away while they murmured and went inside.

He felt an awful emptiness walking home as the rain beat down. He could only hear his own heartbeat. Once he reached home, Latu sat at his desk and pretended to study so his Memey wouldn't question him. Inside his mind, he could think of nothing but that girl.

The next day, Latu met her. To his great surprise, she was there too—at the same school, Nangkor High School, in the same ninth grade.

"I didn't see you the first day," Latu said in class.

"Yes, I stayed home helping my parents." Her soft breath entered his heart.

"I'm Latu Tshering. And you?"

"Choden."

Soon they became good friends. They shared everything under the sun. Everything was perfect, especially their romance. Their relationship developed a bond that was hard to break. Their days became the shortest and happiest of their lives after they found each other. It became Latu's daily routine: whatever the weather, whatever the troubles at night, he would quietly go and spend his evening at her house.

A year or so passed. After a few rare discussions about their future, they decided to drop out of school and get married. Their reasons were that they couldn't study properly and were held back in the same grade, that teachers complained about their behavior, and that their parents frequently reminded them they were wasting money.

After a year of married life, Choden spoke as if she had changed her mind.

"My Ajang Karpo asked me to come to Thimphu," she said.

"For what?"

"To find a job. To be honest, if we stay like this, our life will be ruined in this village. He found me a job."

"No, how can you go? You and me—we will start together, work together, survive together," Latu sighed.

"I'll come back and get you after I find a job. Maybe a month."

And that was how she left—without giving him time to show how much he loved her.

He hated those who chatted with her. Jealousy was a crazed love. He had noticed it back in their school days. Now she was gone—very far away.

To pour out his desperation, Latu gained the courage to write a letter every day. He wrote long letters about their past, cheered her up endlessly. He told her everything, gave his heart and soul. He wrote how she had broken his heart when she left. He wrote of his hope to see her soon. They had no secrets. His only real fear was that they might one day lose each other without ever being together again.

Days went by, incredibly okay. She wrote back. She promised she would find a job and return to him. She asked him to wait another two months. She wrote that they would make a comfortable life with the money she earned.

Their foam-like love lasted three months. Latu wrote almost every day. But her letters grew fewer—one or two a month. Then months passed. Then he received none. Latu was in hell. Those trances of happiness and charm vanished forever when he heard from village gossip that she had been found floating in the Thimphu River.

Life was dead. The paths were blurred. Silent traces of memory killed him—memories shut to his chest, to be valued and cherished, until he could bear it no longer. It was a nightmare. He couldn't accept that after so many months of love, she was gone, leaving nothing but grief to show she had ever been there.

Why should she leave when there was so much beauty in her, so much life to be lived, so much love she had received?

He walked out on all his dreams.

He cried in defeat.

Three days later, her Ajang Karpo gave him a small note found in her room. It read:

Dear Loving Latu,

The truth of life is sometimes hard to tell, especially when one has so much love. I know my life. I separated from you on purpose. I hope you will understand. My short life was shortened by brain cancer. I had only another month to live. I couldn't bear to see you watch me die. So I ended my life in the water, far from you.

Start a new life, Latu. I am sorry we could not grow old together. The little savings I have are in your name.

Yours always,
Choden

Latu sweated with cold tears.