A Wise Tree-Jangchub Shing

Do you watch a program called Jangchub Shing hosted by Mr. Karma Dendup every Thursday on BBS 2? If you don't, you should. If you can't, I pity your Thursday evenings. This program is of immense benefit to us viewers—and by "immense benefit," I mean it gives us something better to do than scrolling through Facebook and arguing about whether instant noodles are ruining our culture.

I personally take out time to watch the show. That's right. I could be doing anything else—sleeping, eating, staring at a wall—but I choose Jangchub Shing. I would like to sincerely thank Mr. Karma Dendup for this show. He asks rebellious questions. Real-world questions. The kind that make monks choke on their butter tea. Kudos to him for awakening us to the basics of the Buddhist religion—things we should have learned but were probably too busy memorizing pop song lyrics.

Thanks to him, I learned something important: there is a vast difference between religion and spirituality. Religion, let's be honest, often leads to egotism. ("I pray more than you, so I'm holier.") Spirituality, on the other hand, leads more often to humility. ("I know nothing, and that's fine.") One makes you wear a bigger crown; the other makes you take it off. Now, out of my own unawareness—or perhaps my stubborn interest—I asked him two layman questions last time. Layman questions, meaning the kind that make scholars sweat and Rinpoches suddenly remember an urgent appointment. I requested that he ask these questions for better illumination. He said he would. I'm holding my breath. It's turning purple.

The only path to spiritual enlightenment, as I understand it, is understanding and grasping one's own mind. We can attain this through constant meditation and mental contemplation—called gom in Dzongkha. In other words, it's basically knowing your soul. But here's the catch: what is the soul? Shape? Round like a momo? Flat like a pancake? Colour? Blue? Invisible? Size? As big as a watermelon? As small as a lentil? Empty? Full? Half-full like my optimism on a Monday morning? To attain the level of full realization—knowing the soul—is said to be the highest level. That's when you can be born into nirvana. Wonderful. But the process of identifying the nature of the soul—whether it's empty or not, whether it dies or not—is where things get slippery.

The concrete meaning of the soul and its whereabouts is surprisingly difficult to get from any Rinpoche. They say it's a secret. A kind of "cannot share." A "not allowed to reveal." Which makes me wonder: if religion is for the benefit of all sentient beings, and if Rinpoches, Lamas, and sages are supposed to liberate all sentient beings, why do our saviors say it's so difficult to get this information? Why can't it be shared easily? Why can't it be shown—just shown once—so that we all become Buddha-nature and finally liberate ourselves from suffering? Is the soul hiding? Is it shy? Does it have social anxiety? I'm not asking for a full biography. Just a rough sketch. A hint. A breadcrumb.

Teachers’ Day

Not long ago, teachers in Bhutan didn’t have a designated Teachers' Day. Not because anyone forgot—but because teachers were already held in such high regard. Interestingly, it’s still not marked on the national calendar as Teachers' Day. Instead, the observance coincides with the birth anniversary of the 3rd Druk Gyalpo.

I remember this day becoming truly important thanks to our former education minister, T.S. Powdyel. He placed teachers above all other civil servants—at least in speeches. With great erudition and even greater enthusiasm, he compared teachers to gurus, the ones who enlighten. He used soft, persuasive words to woo and uplift us, though without much in the way of financial support or improved living standards. In the end, he gifted us a mountain of philosophies, policies, strategies, and plans—so much that teachers were overloaded and more confused than ever. One fine example: the Green School, Green Bhutan concept. Lovely idea. Though I suspect it was really meant to be Clean School, Clean Bhutan.

Now, the present minister? On Teachers' Day, he’s about as responsive as a dead log. Meanwhile, the trend of juvenile Teachers' Day celebrations is honking loudly in the background. And honestly, a really big honk is needed to remind everyone once again that teachers are the true builders of the nation’s future.

Pity the modern teacher, buried under a mountain of work: teaching, monitoring, guiding, planning (I won't list them all—you’d fall asleep). And at the end of it all? A dry, meager salary as the fruit of all that hard labour.

So on this day, I’d like to plead on behalf of all poor teachers: give less for less, and more for more. As of now, no teacher in the country is a Lakhpati. Or even a thousandpati. Frankly, not even a hundredpati. In the end, it all boils down to higher incentives. Not dignity of labour, not respect, not the kind of work—just money. And sadly, it’s the other way around.

Still, I wish to thank my own teachers for making me who I am today and for making a real difference in my life. And to all teachers out there, here’s my wish: Teach from the heart, not just from the book. The book won’t remember you. The heart will.

From google

Our Country, Our Rights

Sanjaya Baru’s book, The Accidental Prime Minister: The Making and Unmaking of Manmohan Singh, hit the markets during a political storm and election frenzy in India. It has certainly created ripples between the two major parties, the BJP and the Indian National Congress.

Judging by the title, the book appears to criticize Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and his tenure. First, he is portrayed as an “accidental” prime minister. Second, the implication is that his time in office did not secure a promising future for India.

What I appreciate most about the book—and even its title—is the freedom of writing and speech it represents. This is a privilege many countries are deprived of and desperately need. Consider their voices, their rights, their freedom of expression. Look at their print media and press freedom. In some nations, criticizing or giving negative feedback to those in power is simply not allowed. If someone dares to do so, they are damned, rebuked, and admonished. Such societies pretend to be utopian but are in fact dystopian. Some put on a gentle facade while offering only limited freedom. Is it freedom of choice? Or freedom of individuality? Their voices are smothered, controlled, and hidden. There is no such thing as “Our country, our rights.”

From Google

Book Fair

Book Stalls

Busy with Books

The book fair at Bajo Higher Secondary School's ground commenced on 10th April and ended on 14th April. There were about 35 bookstalls. The fair was organized by the KMT Printer and Publishing House for schools in western Bhutan, covering dzongkhags such as Thimphu, Punakha, Paro, Chukha, Samtse, Sarpang, Zhemgang, Wangdue Phodrang, and others. Hundreds of school principals, teachers, and library assistants came to purchase books for their school libraries.

There were many contemporary books that looked beautiful on the outside. The books also came in various formats, including illustrations, graphic designs, comics, and more. Almost all classic books were abridged, shortened, or summarized. I loved the variety of books available. There were books on professional development (like those by Robin Sharma), skills development, literature, sports, science and technology, sex education, and so on.

There were also books from Bhutan. Many books authored by Bhutanese sold like hotcakes, even though they were pricey. However, there was one Bhutanese author who stood advertising his thin book to customers. He looked so desperate; he begged anyone to buy his books. This highlights a problem in Bhutan: after working hard and going through the complicated publication process, an author's work is wasted—utterly wasted—leaving the author poorer, peevish, meaningless, and insignificant. Our readers must support these authors.

Our school buys books every year. This year too, the school bought books worth about two lakh and fourteen thousand rupees. Our school library was in charge, and I went to purchase the books. We bought from eight bookstalls, dividing our budget equally among them. I feel this book fair is a good opportunity for book enterprises and shops to make money.

The book fair is conducted every year. It is usually organized in Mongar for the eastern dzongkhags and in Bajo for the western dzongkhags. Many people were talking about changing the venue and the frequent need for such book fairs. It is true that to promote reading habits, to spread knowledge, and to build a knowledge-based society, there is a need to promote these fairs frequently and in different places.

Muse about Music

We play music in schools. We play music on important occasions like weddings and birthdays. We play music in religious ceremonies. If music is everything—peace, love, and a way to ward off boredom; if music acts as an antidote to aggression and hostility; if music is a masterful means of educating people and preserving cultural heritage—then it is worth knowing and understanding.

Music is part of our lives. It is the friend and comforter of one's life. Influential and tuneful music has helped curb disruptive and abusive behaviors. It entertains us. Many young people around the world attend musical concerts and remain glued to iPods, tapes, and TV shows. They memorize and hum songs—oldies do as well. Inside buses, in bathrooms, and in many other places, the sound of humming can be heard.

Music is part of every culture on Earth. Many people feel that music makes life worth living. Music gives us pleasure. It can cheer us up, excite us, or soothe us. It is a form of human communication and a beautiful expression.

Yesterday, I heard one of our Dzongkha Lopens blasting a song called "Zamling Nang Gi Atsara Nga" inside the school toilet. In fact, he was making quite a racket, shaking his voice as if he were doing some kind of exercise in there. Anyway, I love that song. It talks about how unstable our minds can be at times, and how we often play the role of the Atsara—the fool or clown. I like the song.

Taking this into account, many countries value music, whether pop, jazz, or country. They have music awards for the best singer, best lyrics, and best composition. People are rewarded for their hard work. Music is graded according to sales, and the most marketed records are considered the finest. Hence, they have top ten, top twenty, and so on.

We have shows like Druk Superstar, which aims to promote Bhutanese music. Looking at the organizers and the way it is run, however, it seems that such a show struggles to stand on its own feet without strong public support. First, they have to force people to vote. Second, they must look for sponsorships, which are often very meager. Third, the participants receive little compensation for their tireless efforts—learning three genres: Boedra, Yungdra, and Rigsar, and striving to uphold them. Is that a fair prize for their time and dedication? Is there any scope for them to make a living? I have not heard of anyone in Bhutan becoming rich through singing or dancing. If someone does, they likely have to leave the country and start a career in more musically prosperous nations.

Society as a whole tends to think music is insignificant, and we therefore take it for granted. Even though every region has rich folk songs and compositions, we are not fully aware of our own pieces. We tend to copy and reproduce other songs, especially Hindi ones. In Bhutan, the music industry is growing, and music fans are waiting for fresh, high-quality music—a different genre, an uncommon one. Who can satisfy that demand?

We must explore.

At present, we lack Bhutanese music. If you look into any household in Bhutan, you may find one Bhutanese cassette or CD for every twenty or more Hindi and English ones. Who can encourage our own kind of music among the Bhutanese population?

I personally feel we can upgrade music by establishing music halls across the country, organizing competitions, creating a top ten chart, and rewarding artists. They should be recognized frequently and from various areas. How about a monthly Bhutanese top ten? Television, radio, newspapers, and magazines could help promote and expand Bhutanese music within Bhutan. In this way, we can encourage our own music and make every Bhutanese hum a rich Bhutanese song.

You Have All

The sun has the whole universe,

and you too have all-

the generosity, the merriment-

a man’s personality.

Joyful as always to a girl’s heart!

You are optimistic as you are,

and as powerful as a man needs to be.

Good in conversation and believing,

and sometimes in the life's keep gaps; independence,

Bother not what others do:

bother only what you do.

Self-praising hurts you at the end,

but sometimes it uplifts you.

You need that expectation.

Your future is as shiny as coral,

for you have everything

that a man sometimes doesn’t have:

character, the ability to build rapport, confidence, persuasiveness-

These will truly win you through life.

May god bless you, always.

And my wish is god’s wish.

And SO, Did You Have a Good Head?

The Stone, the Egg, and the Heads I've Survived

A journey to an unknown destination is always an apprehensive one. Will there be food? Will there be internet? Will I regret leaving my house? And this journey of life becomes quite exhausting at times—like hiking uphill with a backpack full of bad decisions.

Some days, you like to live the most. Other days, you like to end your life (or at least end your work shift). These two opposite feelings are shaped, twisted, and created by the people around you—especially the ones sitting in the big chair with the clipboard. And this is the journey you have to make. You cannot avoid it. So is my journey. Welcome aboard. Buckle up. It's bumpy.

Life just isn't fair. There's a realistic Arabic proverb that recognizes this perfectly: "If the stone falls upon the egg, alas for the egg! If the egg falls upon the stone, alas for the egg!" Either way, the egg loses. The stone never apologizes. The stone never attends sensitivity training. Life, my friends, is that stone. And we are all very breakable eggs.

Today, I would like to write a brief essay about the heads and bosses I have worked under. These people have affected me, provoked me, and—against all odds—helped me become a better person. Or at least a more patient one. Barely.

Over the years, I have encountered a colorful zoo of supervisors. Good, funny, humorous (yes, both), strict, rigid, cunning, boorish, nefarious, sly, lewd, erogenous (don't ask), and various other flavors of questionable leadership. Let me introduce you to a few. Names have been omitted to protect both the guilty and my career.



The Drinking Head

There was a head who always drank and made other subordinates drink too. Staff meetings were held at the local bar. Minutes were written on cardboard of whiskey bottles. Decisions were made—and then unmade the next morning with a headache and regret. He believed in team-building through hangovers.

The Khuru Head

There was a head who could play Khuru like Degor—minus the accuracy. He could hit spectators better than the target. Villagers learned to duck when he wound up his arm. One time, he hit a cow. The cow is still angry.

The Volleyball Head

There was a head who could smack the volleyball on his own side, no problem. But when it came to kickball? He could kick the ball straight into his own balls. Twice. In one game. We didn't clap. We winced.

The Grazing Head

There was a head who could graze on ladies like cows grazing on lush grasses. He had a favorite field, if you know what I mean. And then he would spare them—like spare parts. Left them on the shelf, dusty and confused. We called him the Tractor. Because he plowed indiscriminately.

The Poking Head

There was a head who could poke into the personal details of others like a dentist with no appointment. He would find faults—only to discover that every finger he pointed had three pointing back at himself. But he never noticed. Too busy poking.

The Barking Head

There was a head who could control crowds like barking dogs—loud, aggressive, and mostly ignored. The problem was, he remained barking himself, even when the crowd had gone home. He barked at walls. He barked at tea. He barked at his own reflection.

The Lesson Plan Head

There was a head who revolved around lesson plans all the time—but never actually taught. The plans were beautiful. Color-coded. Laminated. Framed, probably. The teaching? Terrible. The result: bad teaching, good lessons. As in, lessons on how not to teach.

The Always-Right Head

And finally, there was a head who thought that the boss was always right, and the multitudes were always wrong. One against a hundred? The hundred are fools. Evidence? Who needs it. He once argued that the sun rises in the west. When shown the actual sunrise, he said, "That's an optical illusion." You cannot argue with that kind of confidence. You can only bow and cry internally.


So yes, life is a stone. And we are eggs. But somehow, after all these heads—the drinkers, the kickers, the grazers, the pokers, the barkers, the planners, and the always-rights—I am still here. Slightly cracked, but not broken.

And for that, I thank them. Because every stone teaches the egg how to be stronger. Or at least how to roll away faster.