My Rickety-tricky Journey

Excitement comes in good times. Hope and excitement are two brothers. When there is hope, there is excitement. 

Last month, I had a break from my tough studies, and god, I have had never stayed that long separated with my beloved ones and my place. I had longed to go and go…and guess what time I woke up. The truth was, I never slept the whole night. I had a friend going to the airport from Bangalore. And it was he who needed to reach at 6am in the morning but my flight was at 9am. And sharing the cost of taxi would be just a matter of fact, I went.

My excitement fought the cool winter night in the airport. We waited for 10 or more hours. I received a message on my mobile that my schedule was changed to 7am flight instead of 9am. As luck may favor, or supposed if I had come late, I would have missed the flight. My friend was the god to me in this case and he talked about the god and human life in many instances. It was his lively discussion about the meaning of life, we had almost forgotten the people around. People looked at us with their big judging eyes when our noises reached them to some extent.

“Are we terrorists to get the beguiling looks,” I asked my friend.

But Abdul jumped to his good conclusion, “Life is like that, to look and learn.”

Our topics touched on many subjects like life, old age, meditation, development, India, Bhutan, and concluding with girls. One general fact came from him. He told me that girls were the real authors of all problems, and every problem occurred from them. Think. He gave me many examples and that I surely would agree with it. In between, we went to the toilet outside the hall two or three times. We thought that the toilet was better than many living rooms of some of our poor people.

By and by, it was 6am in morning. We went to the ticket counter, we followed the process, and the process was all in the procedure. I liked that, but I didn’t like the behavior of  a friskier police to frisked thoroughly in a tough manner. Soon we boarded our Jet flight. We were in a different seat. I felt bored without Abdul. We waved our hands time and again. The man next to me was an old man; he slept throughout his journey that forced me to sleep too.

It was in a blink of an eye the plane landed at Kolkata airport. Since I had to change my flight to Bagdora, I bade Abdul goodbye, who will soon fly to Guwahati. After 20 minutes or so, I boarded another Jet connect. I counted the time, as I was excited to reach my home. One minute, two, three… in almost one hour seven minutes the plane landed-too long. But when I reached there, as luck may not have a good turn on me. There was a strike and no vehicle plied towards Phuntsholing. There were some Bhutanese, they said it would be better if we could go and board the train from Siliguri. And that was how we went in a rickety risky Rickshaw for 250/- each from three of us. We booked the train ticket that would be only after 2 hours. I banged my head on my bag. Why this day?

At around 5pm, the local train came. And... I heard the train would be the fastest mode of service, and who said that. That train was running at a snail's speed. My heart was boiling, and my mind was all incensed when the train stopped every one or two kilometers. I bang on the train to move fast as I have to reach Tala; my beloved wife and son. I banged and banged and I cursed. And two Bhutanese friends had another awful news that we have to take another one or more hours journey from Hashimara in a rickety risky Rickshaw. “Maro, Jadha.” I shouted in the voidness of the running train.

At almost to 9pm, we reached Hashimara. The two friends had somebody in Phuntsholing and since they had called that somebody. Luckily, the man was waiting with the Tucson car and the car sped made me gape with small laughter. And within half an hour we reached Phuntsholing.

On the way, my wife called me saying that Phuntsholing cousin would be coming with the car. I asked him to wait at Tashi Commercial building. My Indian voucher balance reached minus and it stopped working. Such a glitch in the critical time! At Phuntsholing, I waited but he was not in the rendezvous place as said in Tashi commercial building. I waited for almost twenty minutes and I decided to take a taxi but the last quick turn I made, I saw his car coming from the Gold building. The Gold building is no gold, it’s a rusted and ramshackle building.
“What is this? Mis-communication.”

We went to get my car. I shivered to drive after a long time. Alone, I started the journey from Phuntsholing, in frenzy and happiness to meet my family, I drove the car and it reached within an hour that usually would take one and a half or more hours. And the rest…happy ending…

Below are some photographs of my journey.

Day in and day out Bangalore airport is busy

Sperms of light outside the building in the night

This is how Abdul and I waited talking about life and in-between flashing 

The tunnel of life

We need wings to fly

Aerial view of Kolkata city

Local train from Siliguri to…? chugging without passenger and running at a snail's speed

Back to Where we Begun

A few weeks ago, our second semester has started. I told myself, “Back to square.” And this is too with life, whatever we dream of, whatever we do and whatsoever life lingers on. It’s always back to the square, back to the square to death. But some mates try to break the rules of nature, back to the square and I myself wanted to; the result was I joined the semester late. Good that I was late, as some even didn’t come for weeks. (But at the back of my mind, it says learning is the first priority). That one fellow (name withheld) has a habit of turning up to the class once in a blue moon. He wheedles with his life’s wife all the time and hearsay has conjectured that he might be scared of his partner's affairs with trespassers…he he. During the last semester, which was our first semester, he just came to do his exam and god knows what he wrote. Let his result come, I am pretty sure, i will take his place if he succeed.

Let me now write about how we wrote our first semester and the last exam. Uh…to start this true narration is a disturbing one and it upsets me and I become slightly eccentric at times. Good things come and with those good things, bad things also lurk behind.

I’ve been writing exams so many times and let me count; I’ve studied for sixteen years and every year comes with two exams with no fewer than seven subjects. So 16(years) ×14(Subjects) =224 times. It seems I’ve done hundreds of exams and I sometimes wonder what benefit have I got. The only one I can assure is fear, tension and lots of hairs fall.

Here again, after seven years, a person who gave exams to students is doing exams again. Hard nut to crack. The story of exam tension, exam miscreants, and bullies fill the air during the exam period.

I have a friend who wins through his talks. His speeches are like outbursts of a dam, rowdy and over-powering, who speaks through hard-loud-sound. His speech subdues anyone and is daring and forceful. Such tongue is needed in many states of affairs especially while buying stuff from Indian cheaters. He would cut the price with his forceful words to half. I would like to call his language ‘bazaar language,’ rough and crude. And people who know him know as ‘he speak like that’ or ‘his nature is like that but this nature ‘like that’ didn’t go everywhere. He has given me the liberty to use his name in any writing. He always asked me to write his full name Omar Khalid Hashim, ‘Hashim,’ and it is nice that his name becomes legendary. Anyways, the legend is also like the roaring lion caught in the net, he too suffers the consequence of rowdy talks.

An unlucky university exam was it. It was the final paper, Hashim wrote something on his question paper that was not supposed to. It was two or three words. The stern supervisor found out and was asked why he wrote on the paper. And Hashim spoke his bazaar languages that made the supervisor mad and crazy to hear his noise. “Why you are speaking like that?” and there were some intense exchanges that disturbed the whole of the exam mates. The supervisor took the paper that made him barmier, rushing after him and exchanging over again outside the room, somehow lost his time. The paper was given to him after saying it was the last warning to him. Such is the advantage of a good talker in a disadvantaged situation.

Everything is back to the square in this second semester, our lecturing, our superfluous debates, everything. Everything. Except for our HOD, Gender Studies lecture Dr. Umashankar left the college. We missed his sweety-moot-y, crafty-witty talks on masculinity, femininity, and trans-gender. Nevertheless, our new HOD plus Gender lecture Dr. Prahbha would continue the human notion of stereotyping sex. Good!

The Pain of Missing

My loving place,

I would like to go

My mind is incline towards there always,

But here I am;

Under the control of life;

Control of human

What I have decided;

To face.

Thinking of my home

Stream of tears fall.

Once the lovely secrets I had,

Regret now, I had not told you.

And faithless acts I had done,

I regret

Forcing the times, I don’t think I would

Throttling the feelings of pains

Thinking of you

Tears drop relentlessly.

What is this for?

Samsaric is the world for me

Wherever I go

It’s sadness only

There is no ending to my sorrows.

Even if we come together

Because of fate we have,

We have to part

Growing through these sorrows

Life’s ending

I pray to god,

What's wrong with this?

Look after me.

Over Beautiful, Over Dirty

My classmate who had dropped the school after attending the sixth standard was in my car. Karpola was his name. He had his own dark flashback in his life. He was coming for the first time to Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan. All his life, he was married to his village, Labar, Pema Gatshel. He had been sweating over to keep his dependents alive. Doing farming, carrying heavy loads, and living in the dark home as much for his dark face in contrast to his name Karpola, which means white, he was living a mundane dark life. The main reason for dropping his studies was financial problems. Over and above, he was living with his old stepfather, who was an alcoholic, and bet his mother over again and over again. He had to take over everything as the sole survival for his mother falls over him. But for me, I had studied and had a job now. We met after seven or so years. My parents’ house was on one lone hill and his over the lone hill. We were not overnight friends but infant friends. On having talked, he agreed to go for the break from what he said, ‘over cowly life’ in the village to Thimphu with me. Visiting Thimphu was his life’s dream and this could be his dream. He was bubbling over with excitement.

We traveled one of the longest journeys, and most of the time he slept inside the car being ill from dizziness. On the way, he over and again said, “You overdrive.” But I overruled him, 50-60 kms/hr was overall an average speed. On nearing Thimphu’s city, we washed our faces fresh and I asked him to be watchful of his dreamland. To had a better view of Thimphu, I drove him from the Semtokha road. He opened his mouth, his tongue was stuck out as he ran his eyes over every corner of valleys, down the big lane; hundreds of cars pass by, hundreds of crowded buildings. He pushed out, “Oh, over cars, more than cows in my village.” i laughed. We just then cross Lungtenphug and saw the whole face of Thimphu. He looked at the city with his poking eyes; he craned his neck through the car’s window. He looked arrestingly overwhelmed. “This is over beautiful.” He noised in the air. “You have misused preposition, we say, the most beautiful.” I laughed and corrected him. “Anyway, this is over beautiful,” he muttered. “We can see this place very beautiful from the outside, let us check inside,” I fawned over. I liked to lord it over my friend. We entered the town; we pulled over to the side and parked the car at the side of the road. Now the man from the uptown world was roaming the downtown world. We reached over the farmer’s market, I tried to paper over the cracks, but he had a habit of drooling over every nook and corner of the market and that was where he got petrify, somewhat allergic to his dream. He had clouded over his face. The shift of scene had cast a shadow over him. “This is over dirty. Beautiful buildings, clean people, clean cars but over dirty drains, over smelly, over wrappers, over papers whatnot all over the places.” He did me over as if I had handover this. I once again corrected with some sense of responsibility and shame of the place I was fussing over, “You can say dirty...”

My far cousin lived in Changjiji. We slept over for some days while I had my spinning administrative works in the Education Ministry. Karpola seeing all kinds of people in the place felt happy to mix in the mixture. I wanted him to experience a city’s life. One night, we went over with a bang to be a part of a discotheque. We saw gangs of youth drunk, hauling over the coals, and soon breaking out into a fight. “This is over dangerous,” he cried. I lost my words. My intention was to show him another side of life; comfort, beautiful, and internally peaceful co-existence but it turned all over. Karpola habituated use of ‘over’ put me in thinking.

The other night, I lied down on my bed and mulled over the word ‘over.’ I doubled over with a hearty laugh thinking over it. But this wasn’t a laughing matter. Was it? I came up with so many reasons for the word ‘over.’ One could look externally very beautiful but dirty interior. The word between ‘over’ and ‘normal’ was like having two faces of a person. Everything overly over is bad. Over and over trying makes success.

After a week’s stay, he decided to go to his home because he had a sort of hangover for his village. “My village is over normal.” He seemed to be head over heels in love with his countryside. I drew a veil over the subject. Karpola’s eyes glazed over as if he was over and done with Thimphu’s vigor. He got over with his dream, a rather betray dream and he went to his village. I didn’t think he would be happy to spill over the news of his visit to his village mates. I reached him to the bus station while I had to return the next morning to Gedu.

Everything

An enrapture piece of mind

Surrounded by happiness today

My mind

So much transported and euphoric

Entirely contented

In this heaven like earth

My angel here;

In front of me today

I wish every day

To be

My birth here was happy

And luckier

To meet you

No wealth is desirable than you

The wealth of having you

Is the wealth I treasure?

No wealth can substitute you

My faithful lover

You will take through the life

Ups and down

And I thank you

and never forget

for fulfilling my dream

My only wish

is to keep you happy

the above god and goddess

wish us

with mindfulness of happiness

and feelings of consideration

to my heaven sent lover

Wish with no ills and troubles

Because I care you more than any wealth in the world.

Note: This poem is the very rough adaptation of Bardo’s song.

Lama Rinpochea

Dungse Thinley Norbu Rinpoche (1931-2011) was an influential modern Buddhist teacher in the lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, and patron of the Vajrayana Foundation. He was the eldest son of Dudjom Rinpoche, the former head of the Nyingma lineages, and also the father of Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche and Garab Rinpoche, known for his Theorma Tshogpa. He wrote many books on Buddhism including ‘White Sail: Crossing the Waves of Ocean Mind to the Serene Continent of the Triple Gems.’ Dungse passed away in America and his Kudhung(body) was brought to Bhutan. His Kudhung was kept for the wellbeing of Bhutanese people for a month. I was there in Paro( Lango) when his Kudhung was put on fire. Thousands of devotees gathered, it was said there were more than 20-30 thousand people. Some as early as 2am in the morning came to occupy the place as near as possible. Those who came late have to parch on the caves and rugged terrain. Buddhists believes, Rinpoche was the incarnation of Guru Rinpoche. Below are the photos were taken on Mechay’s day.



In the darkness, shines through Rinpoche's Kudung



Sanctuary in the sanctum







Have a close look, who is he? Politics in religion

Ah…oh wondering minstrel

Taking kudung in a Bhutanese procession

Swapping body into smoke, an evanescent of life. Many people cried at this time. It was an emotionally poignant moment.

People rising up to inhale the smoke and to show veneration

This is how rich people misuse the space-the good space while people have to parch on the rocks and in the trees.

Smoky to be on fire

Many Neljorpas tents camped around the place

On the way back home the famous Paro Dzong stands rain or shines for hundreds of years. My son’s son would be fortunate enough to see the same Dzong. I said this to my son and he unhappily said to me that I will turn into smoke and disappear. My heart broke apart for sometimes to tear away especially from my beloved people and the earth. But who am I? The great Rinpoche has the same fate.

Forget the dying for now. Live now or never, I told my family. So, we mingle in the tingling town in Paro town for some time. It really is a tingling town, the prices of the things made our head tingle. Those non-eating chilies Chilips tourists have inflated by buying of no use things.

The next day, we went to Phuntsholing to have gracing and blessing from Lam Chime. Lam Chime resides in Sikkim and is the main leader of Theorma Tshogpa in Bhutan. Lam is living for his devotees at this die-able age with his wife. Not all photos were clear and I think it was the cognizant nature of Lama to blur his image for an errant person like me!

And the wheel of the life rolls on and on...and kick the bucket unknown known, unlike Lama rinpoche.

The Value of Crown’s head

I am not an economist and I even don’t know the monetary system in the country. I can only count the cash but the financial crisis or the financial crunch is new to me. My economic teacher taught me when supply and demand do not match inflation and deflation happen. I think this is true in every aspect of our life. When boys outnumbered girls, there are demands from girls. Similarly, when production doesn’t match with market value there is inflation. Now, what the hell is with the Indian rupee and Bhutanese Ngultrum. In border towns like Jaigoan, Samdrupjongkha, etc, the rupee has become scarcer than kidney patient looking for kidney donor, and on the other hand, Ngultrum is just stacks of papers in the hands of merchants.
In this crisis, I walked downtown to experience its affect and effect and to believe it myself. I stopped in a shirt shop to buy a shirt. I intentionally wanted to give the shopkeeper a shock by showing a bundle of Bhutanese notes. After fixing the price at nu. 250/- I took out Bhutanese notes but the salesperson's sudden crafty look at me was an answer to me. He repulsively said he doesn’t accept BC and he demanded IC and if I have to pay BC, I have to pay 300, that is 50 extra. He also said to my ears that if I bring an IC of 1lakh, he would exchange and give me an extra ten thousand BC. I was wondering whether the barter system was creeping in and if it was so, paper cash was thoroughly useless as it didn’t have value. I just blindly agreed that I would try and this trying would be not trying at all, as recently a policeman was caught red-handed for exchanging IC with BC at a higher rate. That policeman was red-handed by the shamus. I have a feeling that when it comes to money it would be the first from the law upholder to become a violator or lawbreaker. I laughed at this joke. I have heard Bhutanese people are making big business with this crisis. I remember my father saying to me, “When one bull falls, another rises.” My brother, who is a banker told me that we Bhutanese are real bulls to do business that would affect one’s country gravely. I didn’t understand him. I am thick-headed on this matter. Anyway, trade value or exchange value in the bordering town is 100 IC for 120 BC and it may rise. The value of the crown’s head is losing under the lion’s head. On the other hand, the government pays five percent on GoI facility and 10 percent on SBI overdraft facility.
I popped in my old shopkeeper friend who sells undergarments; I was there in his shop after three years (after these three years because I bought seven different garments from his shop at one shopping that would last for more than two years. The seven garments I bought from his shop made him crazy that would develop into a sort of underwear friend, and now…now…now I realized that have I really been economical to spend so much on small garments at one go. It was buying two cars when only a car is in need). He greeted me warmly to shoot me about the rupees crisis. “Who am I to control,” I asked myself. I said that the government is discussing it and it will be solved soon. After some blab…blabs. He friendly warned me that Bhutanese are great spendthrift and spend without any saving. I asked about how much money he gets every day from Bhutanese customers and his reply were astonishing when he says that he gets about ten thousand or more every day. His was a small shop and if small shops like his could get so much amount, what about others. There is little or nothing that Bhutan exports but it only imports a great deal. 90 percent is imported from India, going money outside and especially border areas are flooded with Ngultrums. He had the same story that he needs IC to roll his business and like other businesspeople, he said in the name of friendship he would give me better exchange than others would. I will try was a good reply that wouldn’t hurt him.

Bhutan’s financial institutions like BOB, BNB, etc have closed all loan schemes to curbed the crisis. Analyst says that it is a temporary measure but the recent talk by prime minister’s representative Lyonpo Yeshey Zimba was a scary one, who says that Bhutan would be reducing the size of the developmental plan/budget in the next Five Year Plan. Is this a good way of solving the crisis? The present ruling party mustn’t only buy up for their own homes but for the country’s good also.