Health in the School-Washing Water Tank by our Students

Let’s face it—no one wants to drink water that comes with free bonus flavors like old dust, mysterious residue, or the ghost of whatever the tank used to hold. That’s why we decided the tank must be cleaned. Not just “glance at it and hope for the best” cleaned, but properly, aggressively, scrub-until-your-arms-protest cleaned. The goal? To ensure that the water stored inside does not become a science experiment involving dirt or the faint, haunting traces of the tank’s previous contents. 

So we rolled up our sleeves, channeled our inner neat-freaks, and scrubbed every single internal surface like our lives depended on it—because, technically, they do. Then, just to be thorough, we washed all internal surfaces again to remove every last trace of detergent, because no one wants bubble bath-flavored drinking water either.

The thrilling results? See the photos below, featuring our students bravely battling grime on 5th March 2016. Hygiene has never looked so heroic—or so sudsy.

Happy birthday, your majesty

On February 21st, Darla MSS celebrated the birth anniversary of the Fifth King with all the enthusiasm of a school that finally got permission to skip afternoon classes. His Majesty, turning 36, was honoured with a variety of activities—including dignified cultural dances, heartfelt singing of Zhabten, and the surprisingly strategic sport of pillow fighting. Yes, pillow fighting. Because nothing says “dedication to the throne” like whacking your classmate with a cushion in the name of patriotism.

The Zhabten was sung with full hearts and the dances were rehearsed to perfection (mostly), and the pillow fights were… vigorous.

In all, we would like to say THANK YOU for everything you did, and continue to do, for us. From ensuring we have schools to giving us someone worth singing—and pillow-fighting—for. Long live the King, and long live the king.

Back to Schoool 2016

 

Extensive Cardamon Plantation at my village

I have been away. Back now—with lots of official and personal work. I didn’t even have time to open my own blog page, and sorry to say about others—I barely remembered my own name, let alone your existence. Before you assume I ran away to a peaceful monastery to find enlightenment and escape marking.

First, I went to my village for nearly two weeks to work on my cardamom plantation. I was genuinely thrilled to see three or more new plants sprouting from a single plant. That’s right—nature is out there showing off, photosynthesizing like a champion, while I can barely keep a single houseplant alive without it giving me a look of disappointment. The cardamom is thriving. Me? I’m surviving. Barely.

Then came the Class Ten evaluations—fourteen days in Phuntsholing. And it was hectic, because every poor soul had to correct almost a thousand papers. A thousand. That really kept me tight and sleepy. Tight in the shoulders from hunching over answer sheets, and sleepy in the soul from reading “the sun rises from the west” for the fortieth time. You haven’t known true darkness until you’ve read the same wrong answer fifty times. Fifty.

After this, I went to Gelephu to stay a few days with my family. That was nice. No papers. No cardamom. Just relatives asking why I get married, why I’m still not single, and whether I’ve “considered settling down.” Cause I didn’t know how to even cut radish for Losar.  So, you know, a completely different kind of stress—the emotional ambush kind.

Then I had a School Health Coordinators workshop in Phuntsholing. For six glorious days, we were oriented on some basic health services. I am now officially qualified to tell you to wash your hands. You’re welcome. Next year, I might earn a certificate in breathing. Stay tuned.

And then, Losar abruptly emerged near the door like an uninvited but welcome relative, and we had ‘bang’ Losar in Gelephu. The ‘bang’ wasn’t just the celebration—it was the sound of my head hitting the pillow every night after too much whiskey and too many greetings.

Now that February is officially here, we have to face the ugly truth: winter has almost ended and it’s time to be in school! Yes, the holidays are over. The warm blankets must be abandoned. The alarm clock must be befriended again—reluctantly, suspiciously, like a former enemy you now have to share a room with.

By now, I have come up with drunken dreams, terrified hopes, and all that “new year, new me” freshness over the break. Drunken dreams meaning the kind where I genuinely thought I could wake up at 5 AM every day and exercise. Terrified hopes meaning I know, with absolute certainty, that I won’t. The only thing getting up at 5 AM is the neighbour’s rooster.

Just a few days ago, I have been constructing a website for my school. It’s almost done—miracles do happen. Here is the link:

http://darlamssedu.blogspot.com/

Go on, visit it. It has fewer typos than my exam papers. That’s not a high bar, but still.

Wish you all the best and back to school!!!

May your chalk not break. May your coffee be strong. And may your first day back be mercifully short—preferably zero minutes long. But we don’t always get what we pray for, do we?

TA/DA Rush

In Bhutan, teachers now outnumber civil servants. Exactly how this happened is a mystery—possibly related to a national shortage of sanity and an oversupply of chalk dust. So when small, glittering opportunities like invigilator duty come along, there is a rush. A stampede. A hunger-games-level scramble.

We had a selection for invigilation last time, and it was lots of hullaballoo. Meetings dragged on. Fingers were pointed. Tea was consumed in nervous quantities. Everyone wanted to go—when it was time for getting. Per diem? Yes please. TA/DA? Hand it over. A paid nap disguised as duty? Where do I sign? But when it was time for work? Suddenly, nobody wanted to do. Elbows retracted. Enthusiasm flatlined. This, dear reader, is the nature of humans—and the nature of (especially) Bhutanese. We want the harvest, just not the weeding.

I didn't go for almost seven years. Seven. That's practically a teacher's sabbatical without the yoga retreat. And when I tell people this, they have many reasons—none of which include me being noble, humble, or efficient. I have my say too. Many, in fact. But they wouldn't listen to my stand, I know. So I remain silent. And it is better, everywhere. To voice a voice is different here. One is treated like a bad criminal. SHIT! (Yes, I said it. And I'll say it again. SHIT!)

There were some criteria. Beautiful criteria. Printed, laminated, probably framed somewhere. And these criteria, as we all understand deep in our bones, are meant for breaking. Only a few follow them, and most of the time, they were broken by the heads themselves—the very architects of said criteria. Irony? Tragedy? Bhutanese office comedy? You decide.

There were some teachers who got selected even when they didn't qualify for any criteria. None. Zero. Not even a close shave. Within the same year, they went out with lots of TA/DA—happy, well-rested, probably sending postcards—and yet that same teacher somehow qualified for the game. Every single time. I don't understand if it's due to their sycophancies, their talent for laughing at the right jokes, or a secret annual sacrifice to the office ghost. But it's unfair. And we all know it. And we all sip our tea and say nothing.

I have observed that opinions and suggestions are never respected. They are taken as negatives and often described as "sailing against the current." As if asking a simple question is the same as capsizing the national boat. I only feel that if an opinion is stated in western countries, people might at least pretend to listen. But here, it is taken as aggressive, negative, and looked down upon—like you've shown up to a wedding in a trash bag.

I feel, to improve and better our relationships, it's very important to listen to others. BUT who listens. EEERRRR! (That sound, by the way, is the collective sigh of every teacher who ever opened their mouth and immediately regretted it.)

So we smile. We nod. We collect our Nu. 100 for the Rimdro. And we watch the same faces pack their bags for invigilation duty year after year.

May your voice be heard somewhere. Even if it's just in your own head.

Chorten in Darla MSS - A Tribute to His Majesty

The Chorten That Ate Our Salaries: A Spiritual Adventure in Deductions

The significance of a Chorten (known internationally as a stupa, or "that dome-shaped thing you see everywhere in Bhutan") is said to be abundant. Apparently, it not only takes one closer to heaven—handy for those of us worried about the climb—but also protects one from any kind of evils. Evils like bad grades, lost chalk, and perhaps unexpected budget meetings.

The idea of this chorten construction came to us as a surprise. A big, holy, wallet-emptying surprise. In the beginning, everyone thought constructing this kind of small monument is a very easy and effortless kind of work. You know, like making a sandcastle. Or baking a cake. How hard could it be, right?

Oh, sweet summer children of Darla.

When the construction began, it turned out to be a huge work and incurred lots of money. Because of course it did. So, the coordinators—bless their spiritual but financially terrifying hearts—counted on every one of us staff. We were told, very gently, that Nu. 1000 (One thousand, yes, you read that right) will be deducted every month. For two months. Then we had "collected." .

Not only that, every student in the school was requested to donate any amount for the chorten. "Any amount" in school language means "bring something, preferably not just good wishes." They also sent many letters of contribution to many localities and people—because why limit the financial pain to just one campus?

So, when the budget presentation was done in one of the meetings, the budget had amounted to almost 2 lakhs. Two. Lakhs. That's a lot of Nu. 1000 deductions. And the contribution and donation didn't stop coming. There were contributions of both cash and kind. "Kind" included firewood, rice, and the silent tears of teachers.

Now, I really appreciated the man behind this chorten. He is a thorough spiritual person. His name is Mr. Ugyen Wangdi—and no, he is not accepting donations at this time. He really worked hard to complete the chorten so that the school could consecrate it on 11th November, coinciding with HM, the fourth Druk Gyalpo, Jigme Singye Wangchuck. We dedicate this chorten for his long and peaceful life—and also, let's be honest, to remind ourselves that nothing spiritual comes cheap.

And truly, miraculously, and against all budget forecasts, it was completed on 11th November. Here is the picture story of the chorten. Please enjoy the photos. Your Nu. 1000 is in there somewhere. Look closely.

Groundbreaking Ceremony for Chorten

Foundation work

Busy

Busy like Bees

Carring Nangzu of the Chroten

Ready to Paint

Consecration

Dedicated to 60th Birth Anniversary of 4th king

Tsatsa for the chorten

Some Nangzus - see lots of cats eyes

Old things

And without students the Chorten wouldnt have been completed