Reading Religious Books(NRY)

(To commemorate the National Reading Year (NRY))

I have read books. A great many books. Most of them were English literature—stories, novels, verses about love, war, and people who never seem to need a bathroom break. But these days, I have switched genres. Dramatically. I am now reading philosophical books. Books of religion.

Why the sudden change? Simple: my age is drawing closer to death, and old age is nicking in. Not kicking in—nicking in, like a petty thief stealing my knees, my memory, and my ability to stay awake after 8pm.

It's time now to prepare. To practice some good things before DreyNagchung summons me to his court. I don't know what the dress code is there, but I suspect it's not casual.

As a matter of fact, we don't know when we're kicking our bucket. But kick the bucket we must. This is not news. Everyone knows we all die. Even your neighbor who thinks he'll live forever by drinking arra knows it—he just doesn't like to admit it.

To understand more about life and death, I have read books. A small sample:

· Thich Nhat Hanh's books (calming, like a cup of tea that also judges you)

· Wentz's The Tibetan Book of the Dead (spooky title, surprisingly practical)

· Sogyal Rinpoche's The Tibetan Book of Living & Dying (the sequel nobody asked for, but everyone needed)

· The Dalai Lama's book series (so many volumes, so little time before death)

· Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse's two books (short, sharp, and spiritually humiliating)

And other books of Buddhism. All these books are philosophies, theories, and stories. All of them teach us to be good, helpful, and altruistic. Wonderful advice. These things require practice. Lots of practice. And because of my legendary laxity—truly, I could win an award for procrastination—these theories have been remaining as theories. I am so weak at practicing every day that my meditation cushion has now been repurposed as a backrest for watching TV.

Today, I am almost done with The Way to a Meaningful Life by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Like his other books, this one teaches the meaning of "I" and the realization of the meaning of the mind. I am a layman. A simple man. A man who still gets excited when the ara is warm. Understanding all this is hard. But as a human—a dying human—I feel it is very important to try.

Here are some extracts from the above-mentioned book. Brace yourself.

"When Buddha taught the four noble truths, first he identified true suffering, sources, cessations, and paths, and then said: Sufferings are to be recognized, but there is nothing to be recognized. The sources of suffering are to be abandoned, but there is nothing to be abandoned. Cessation is to be actualized, but there is nothing to be actualized. The path is to be meditated, but there is nothing to be meditated." (pg 156-157)

Read that again. Or don't. Either way, apparently, there's nothing to do. Which is convenient for lazy people like me.

His Holiness also talks about "form and emptiness," quoting the Heart Sutra:

"Form is emptiness, emptiness is form; form is not other than emptiness; emptiness is not other than form." (pg 164)

This has very deep meanings. So deep, in fact, that after reading it five times, I forgot what I had for breakfast. Which might also be emptiness.

And then there is this profound statement from Buddha about the nature of mind:

"In the mind, the mind is not to be found; the nature of the mind is clear light." (pg 171)

The Dalai Lama provides an explanation. Thank goodness. Because without it, I would have simply nodded, closed the book, and gone back to wondering why my phone charger never works.

Finally, there is a concise—truly, just 15 minutes—book called The Path to Dharma, published by the Commission for Religious Organizations, 2012, Bhutan. It's in both English and Dzongkha, which means you can be confused in two languages instead of one. The book discusses karmic cause and effect, different lives, virtuous and non-virtuous acts, and the nemesis of each act. It's worth knowing where we are going before we die. Even if that place, according to the Heart Sutra, might be nowhere at all.

So read, dear friend. Read while you can. Because one day, DreyNagchung will call your name, and you'll want to have at least pretended to understand emptiness.

Or not. Either way, there's nothing to be done.

Three Wise Monkeys

From Google Guru

People say that there is no such thing as evil and that everything is good in itself. If this is true, then everything is at peace.

There are three basic commandments for our spiritual progress and wisdom, known as the three wise monkeys: "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."

The question is: what can we look at now? Turning a blind eye to others' misconduct is not, I think, a true sign of good conduct. It is more like ignoring it. Moreover, it tells us to refrain from looking at things that may cause sin in someone else, without caring what others do.

I believe this is the time to see more, hear more, and speak more. It is not what we absorb, but what we produce from ourselves that pollutes our souls. By not seeing, not hearing, and not speaking evil, nothing of that same evil shall be generated from us. We must restrain ourselves from watching dirty movies, uttering dirty words, or engaging in any undesired activities.

Evil has many interpretations. The baseline of all is to protect us—our souls—from ourselves. Life is how you see it, I think. If you want it to be happy and beautiful, you must see the beauty in everything you experience. You read beautiful books so that you have a beautiful mind. Like the laughing Buddha, the three wise monkeys are a form of feng shui for better living.

Eddie Murphy said it best in Brooklyn Vampire: "If there was no evil, you would never know what good is, right? So evil is good."

We Are the Family of RASTA

We are the Family of Bad Group

"We Are the Family of RASTA," wrote Class VIII A of Darla MSS on their classroom wall.

Not a motivational quote. Not a wise proverb. Not even a half-decent spelling bee word. Just this. Written boldly. Right in front of the teachers' eyes.

I am seeing this today, as I had invigilation duty for the Class VI common exam there. Yes, while innocent sixth-graders were sweating over fractions and grammar, the eighth-graders had apparently been busy redecorating. Poorly.

How careless and ignorant have we been in this school? Had I seen it before, I would have discussed it with the class teacher or the school administration. But I will talk about this for sure. Consider this my official, very concerned, slightly bewildered memo.

Rasta was everywhere in the class. See, even the cello taping are of a Rasta symbol

Not just on the wall. Oh no. They were committed. Even the cello tape—the humble, transparent, supposed-to-be-invisible cello tape—bore a Rasta symbol. Let that sink in. Some student sat there, carefully drawing or sticking a Rasta symbol onto tape. That is dedication. Misguided, illegal, but dedicated.

Class VIII A students knew the meaning of Rasta. And I guess they have been following it. The term Rasta refers to marijuana and cannabis. It also refers to street dealing in drugs. But wait—there's more.

Rasta began in Jamaica. It is a religion called Rastafarianism, where followers believe drugs can "raise them." According to their beliefs, cannabis is spiritual. It cleans the body and mind. Heals the soul. Exalts consciousness. Facilitates peacefulness. Brings pleasure. Brings them closer to God.

Their symbol? A leaf of the marijuana plant.

Now, I am no botanist, but I have seen enough after-school specials to know that this is, in fact, the deadliest drug group. Or at least the most creatively decorated one.

Our parents and teachers must be so mindful of what children write and do. We must go through each letter and each word. Every syllable. Every doodle in the corner of a notebook. Every suspiciously cheerful drawing of a leaf.

Because this year, many drug-related problems were from Class VIII A. Blame it on this RASTA. Or blame it on the adults who didn't notice a wall-sized confession staring them in the face for months.

Either way, the wall will be cleaned. The tape will be removed. And Class VIII A will learn a valuable lesson: if you're going to advertise your lifestyle choices, at least use better grammar.

Or better yet, write a proverb next time. "Empty vessels make the most noise." That one seems fitting.

And there was a pamphlet saying 'Say No to Drugs.' on that same wall. Did they listen?

Do you have Any Workshop?

NOOO...NOTHING...

As the year 2014 draws to a close, most teachers are attending workshops and short-term skills training. But for some teachers like me, it is the same story as always: no workshops, no training, no skills—just survival.

A few teachers from my school have been assigned invigilation duty, visiting examiner roles, and similar tasks. But most will have to survive the winter on their meager monthly salaries. As for me, like many years before, I have been staying humbly at the school. Nothing of the sort has been offered to me. Opportunities like invigilation duty come only once every ten years or more—truly a once-in-a-blue-moon chance. And apparently, the moon is not blue in my neighborhood.

There is a story about this kind of rare opportunity. In 2007, a lady teacher came all the way from Haa to Punakha for invigilation duty. She stayed in an expensive hotel, paying nearly Nu. 400 per night, plus food, for herself and her two children. Unbelievably, her daily allowance was only Nu. 300. Let me do the math for you: she was losing money faster than a gambler at a rigged table. When asked why she had come for the duty, she said she would not miss her golden opportunity. She seemed crazy, but it is true. Well, that is another story. Possibly a psychological case study.

For some teachers, however, workshops, seminars, evaluation duties, and the like have been unending blessings. The same person often goes to one after another. You know the type. They attend a workshop in Paro, then a seminar in Thimphu, then an evaluation in Trongsa. I have heard that one can avail such opportunities if one knows people in the Ministry of Education, BCSE, or other relevant offices—if one has connections. I have also heard that being a lady helps. I am neither. I am just a man with a pen and a growing collection of rejection letters.

There are nominations from the school, but when the time for selection comes, someone has already been chosen. These nominations are done purely to show that everything is fair—to claim that the process went through proper channels from the grassroots level, and to have documentation in case any issues arise with the ACC or other parties. That is certain. It's like locking the door after the horse has not only bolted but also sold the stable.

As of now, I have no workshop of any kind—news of such opportunities barely reaches me. I hear about them from colleagues returning with free notepads and catered lunches. "Oh, it was fine," they say, wiping their mouths.

Apart from this workshop, I will have to go to a Shakti workshop or a Durga workshop in Jaigaon. My car needs a good workshop to function properly. My car has a better chance of getting repaired than I do of getting trained. At least the mechanic knows my name.

So here I am. No invigilation. No seminar. No blessing from the Ministry. Just me, my meager salary, and the faint hope that next year—maybe, just maybe—the moon will turn blue.

Or at least my car will shine.

Winter Days

Wintery view from my House

This is a time. And not just any time—it is the time for ending.The flowers are withering.The brown leaves of trees are falling one by one, each one whispering, "I told you autumn was coming." There have been times of glory—growing, sprouting, and blooming. There were times when birds sang joyfully, hunting for fresh food like tiny feathered bandits. There have been times of rain and sunshine. There have been times… and now, this is the time when everything is coming to an end. The year is drawing to a close. 

Our exams are almost done. The product of a year's learning—sweat, tears, and a surprising amount of doodling—is nearly at its final result. Children are happy. Parents are happy about their smooth sailing throughout the year. (Or maybe just happy that the children are back home and not asking for pocket money.) Wish them so much luck ahead. They will need it when the report cards arrive.

The winter season in most parts of Bhutan is not exactly a time for celebration. Nobody is dancing in the streets. Nobody is singing about snowflakes. Instead, everybody is in a restive mood—the kind where you want to move but your blanket says no. The chilly northern winds bundle people into so many layers of clothing that we all look like walking onions. Moving becomes difficult. Walking to the kitchen feels like climbing Everest. Most people remain inside their homes, sitting around bhukharis and room heaters like penguins huddled for survival. Many are drinking warm ara or bangchang—not because they want to, but because the cold leaves them no choice. It's medicinal, really. And this is also the time to gather and talk. A whole lot of talking. About the year's work. About plans ahead. About whose cow wandered into whose potato field. About whether the government will finally fix that road. About everything and nothing. I wish them so much luck ahead. And also a thicker blanket.

Let us take a moment to appreciate the bhukhari. That humble, sooty, heat-spewing iron box is the true hero of Bhutanese winter. It asks for nothing but firewood. It gives everything—warmth, comfort, and the occasional burn on your shin when you sit too close. It doesn't judge you for wearing the same socks three days in a row. It doesn't complain about the smoke that fills the room. The bhukhari is loyal. We do not deserve the bhukhari. .

Bhukhari

Here at Darla, it's no better than any other place. In fact, it might be worse. The temperature drops to minus at this time of year. On top of that, it has been drizzling for so many days now. Not heavy rain. Not a storm. Just a slow, miserable, relentless drizzle that soaks into your bones and stays there. The winds cut through clothes and skin, turning bodies into icy iron statues. I half expect to see myself rusting. The good news—and there is good news—is that we will soon migrate to the lower, southern, warmer parts of Phuntsholing and Gelephu. Yes. Migration. Like birds. But with more luggage and less grace. Soon, we will feel the sun again. Soon, we will shed our onion layers. Soon, we will complain about the heat instead. And that is the circle of life in Bhutan.