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 up like old uncles after a long wedding. 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. New curtains are folding inside out, probably because someone installed them wrong. What brings a new? Good question. Let's find out together.   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. Minus! That's not a temperature. That's a warning. 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, my friends, is the circle of life in Bhutan.

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

It's Exam Time: Brains Are Cracking, Teachers Are Weeping.

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 lectures, 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 contemplate their career in TikTok?

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 coffee. 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 tea. Lots of tea.

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.