Rain of Bliss

After much deprivation,

Rain falls—
A shower to clean the earth.
Everyone is happy and merry.
Everyone shows their teeth.
They come out to receive the first fall;
To get awash is their fondness.

Everywhere, as far as I can see, there is rejoicing
After the long, sweltering drought.
Air gusted and sandy,
Plants wilted, flowers still in buds,
Animals and birds wandered away.
Dejected, pathetic people lived a calamitous life!

Now, in the rain, everyone seems exulted.
The rainfalls
Like cheerful tears from the eyes.

Leaves dance to the dripping of the rain.
Countable animals venture into the meadows to drench.
Dancing clouds shroud the valleys.
The dusty earth sprinkles wet.
Some say it's the "holy grail."

Well, the rain mops and bathes.

The place has rejuvenated.                                     

The Sound of Musing

Silence has internal silence that keeps the soul with so many muses. These muses are sounds of existence; bad or good. Silence with thoughts and speeches without meaning is what animals live.

I am an ear,
My mind's radar.
I am all ears—
In silence.

The wind has a voice.
It rustles, it whispers,
It is understood,
Speaking of wasteland rejuvenated,
Of rivers running clear,
Of myriad darkness revealed.

I hear pleasant songs
Of everything.
Still, the world is
Not so nice for me.
I lie down lonely to sleep.
While walking on
Meadows green,
I fall from vertigo to grief.

Is it the lack of lucre?
No—more a want of wit.
Is it the fear of death?
Not at all. Cheerless faith.

I am an ear—
An auditory organ
Buffeted by sound,
Touching my thinking.
And this is the life I lead:
Animal existence.

A Heaven in the Soul

The place I live is called heaven,
And they called me the God.

Who is the God?
I said, "Everyone is so."

Unrelieved, they shouted at me,
"Who are you?"

"I am just like you."

"No."

To live and to be—
to LIVE in the world—is different,
As every individual is, so.

We live a hell-like life.
I have no fog in the mind,
Not a cog in the machine.
I go for a clear and virtuous mind and heart—
A soul of heaven,
A soul to proliferate this.

My House

My house in my village in Pemagatshel is nearly 60 years old. That's ancient in human years, but in house years, it's still flexing. It stands alone near a forest in Labar, like a retired warrior who doesn't need anyone's approval. This is where my parents currently live, and where all of us were brought up—running around, falling off stairs, and probably driving everyone crazy.

It's a large, three-storied house built of stone, wood, and mud. No iron pillars. No modern engineering. Just pure, stubborn Bhutanese craftsmanship. It has withstood all kinds of natural calamities—earthquakes, storms, and the soil erosion that occurred right beside it. Many times, the erosion threatened to eat away the land next to our house like a hungry ghost. But after building layered walls and planting trees, that same spot has now become a point of pride and conversation. ("Remember when we almost lost the backyard? Good times.")

My father said the house was struck by earthquakes several times—and not the gentle, "did you feel that?" kind. Yet not a single stone fell. The house remains just as it was, unlike my knees, which started complaining in their thirties.

I love my house, and I often wonder how my parents managed to build something so huge and so strong. It must have been incredibly hard work for them during the 1960s—a time when "heavy machinery" meant a strong back and a lot of Arra. I was told that my father brought carpenters and workers from Assam. I believe the design was his own, because it looks like one of the finest examples of a traditional Bhutanese house. No blueprints. No architect. Just vision, sweat, and probably some creative yelling.

Because of this house, my father was known as the wealthiest person in our Gewog. He is still well-known to many across the Dzongkhag. Never mind that "wealth" back then meant wood, stone, and a roof that didn't leak. He owned it. Literally.

Now, looking back at this house, I feel immense pride and respect. This was—and still is—my home. My temporary home. Just like my late brother Sonam, who left this house, I too must eventually leave… for my permanent home. But where? That's the question nobody can answer, and the silence is too sad.

So for now, I'll keep clicking photos with my mobile and pretending the house will outlive us all. Because honestly? It probably will.

Here are some photos of my house which I clicked last time. Please ignore my photography skill.

Front view

Side view

When Rains Come, it Come in Battalions

So many grave things are happening in our school these days. I'm starting to wonder if someone secretly built this place on an ancient burial ground. Let me list the disasters—not for sympathy, but because listing things makes me feel in control.

First Grave Thing: The Vice Principal's Absence

Our school vice principal's wife has been hospitalized for several months. Naturally, he has been by her side, as any decent husband should be. Unfortunately, the subject he was assigned to teach—science—has been left in complete shambles. For more than a month, classes V A, V B, and V C have had their science books bolted inside their bags. The students are thirsty. Not for water. For scientific knowledge.

When there was no hope of his return, and when the exams came knocking like an angry landlord, our science department finally took initiative. They decided to cover those classes. But here's the problem: science teachers in Bhutan are loaded. Not with money—please don't laugh—but with periods. They already have more teaching hours than a clock has ticks. Somehow, they agreed to adjust and spare their already compressed time.

When I asked my class V students how it's going, they said, "One period is enough to cover a chapter." Yes. One period. One chapter. That's how sciences are taught when everyone shares the teaching—it becomes nobody's cake, and everyone tries to munch it all at once. Digestion is not guaranteed.

Second Grave Thing: The Principal's Family Crisis

The school also had to remain for a month without our principal, which saddened every one of us. His sister suffered a severe trauma, and on top of that, she had birthing complications. This kept both her and the baby in the Thimphu hospital ICU for many weeks. Life is difficult, I heard him saying. And he didn't even mention the state of our lesson plans.

Third Grave Thing: Two Students Behind Bars

Two of our students are now behind bars. Their sentences: up to three years. I feel deep pity for these two boys from classes IX and X—locked up in the dark, missing their education, their futures now clouded. It makes you wonder: what if this had happened to a rich or noble family? It wouldn't even be news. It would be a "private matter."

These two boys committed a fourth-degree felony. Burglary. But here's the heartbreaking part: it could have been settled before it got punched all the way to court. That's the cruelty of law enforcers sometimes. They don't always study the offense or the nature of the crime as carefully as they should.

What exactly did the boys do? They entered a shop in Rinchentse and stole some food items and a little money. I heard they didn't even break a door. They simply walked through an already unlocked entrance. One of the boys was living alone on rent and struggling to get enough ration to eat. He was hungry. Not greedy. Hungry.

That boy then took his class X friend along with him to the shop. See how bad minds infect and change others? Except here, the "bad mind" was just a hungry stomach. They allegedly took items worth around Nu. 8,000. Not a fortune. Not a diamond heist. Just enough to survive.

The real question now is: once they are released from that dungeon, will they ever think good thoughts about life again? Or will the system have taught them that hunger is a crime and desperation has no mercy?

Fourth Grave Thing: The Football Humiliation

And then, as if all this wasn't enough, the Bhutan football team was hammered by the Hong Kong team. What a disgrace! I'm not saying we should stop playing football. But maybe—just maybe—Bhutan should focus on some necessary developments first. Like roads. Like drinking water. Like poverty. Not just "routing playing," as someone beautifully put it.

Don't do what we can't do. Do what we can do. And right now, we cannot seem to kick a ball OR keep our students out of jail. Priorities.

A Small Prayer and a Big Chorten

Anyway, I pray that this mid-term exam gets over before another misfortune strikes here. There is already a plan for our school to conduct a small ritual to drive these evils away. Because at this point, we'll try anything. Even burning incense at the principal's desk.

In our last review meeting—which was surprisingly fruitful—everyone agreed to contribute Nu. 1,000 for some months to lay the foundation of our school's chorten. Yes. A chorten. Because if we can't fix the living, at least we can honor the dead. Or the cursed.

The meeting also unanimously agreed that there is a need for a Threma Rimdro in the school. The house agreed without a single objection. That's how scared we all are.

Our national assembly will continue in the next session. Until then, may the exams be easy, the rituals effective, and the science chapters mercifully short.

To a Father, Who is Seeking his Spiritual Life?

Father, a builder of a family circle—

Six children and a wife.

He, for devoutly spiritual pursuit, is gone,

And spends days, weeks, and months away.

To them, the hopes of his children are left.

What has this religion begotten?

Is this truly spiritual discipline?

He talks of roots,

The realization of angelic enlightenment.

It's only gossip—

Belief made differently.

And one more does much!

Choey is not where you go, selfish,

To shower grace

While leaving others to suffer.

Can we connect God with such injustices?

How many butter lamps, rites and rituals,

Repeating mantras and scriptures,

Piles of gold in shrines,

Traveling overseas,

Or confining oneself in deep forest

Or to Bodh Gaya?

Renunciation is not mysticism.

Rather, it is attitude toward life that matters.

Godliness is being together with

Your children, parents, wife, and all individuals.

Saintliness is unwavering faith and loyalty tothe Tsawasum.

Bodh Gaya is at home and in workplaces.

God is everywhere, for everyone.

You offer yourself to the service of others—

Being good, doing good.

Conscience and consciousness—

Are they the inner soul of you?

Live and exhibit happy environs.

Through happiness comes compassion,

And compassion is the virtuous sacred of contemplation.

The path of religion is as of death.

Death is the sole divinity.

Death intrudes.

Everyone dies.

Look at the faces of your children—

Dying before their death,

Agonies of your arrival, eagerly starved.

I believe:

"Spiritual" is on the face of people,

And it ends there.

It is deeds and actions that shape

The world we inhabit.

Being a server is Buddhahood.

Who, being Buddha, is still a server?

Outward worship brings little transformation

In the absence of that basic factor: love and care.

You are the Buddha.

You truly can return to heaven with these deeds—

That is true religion.

*Choey-Dharma

*Tsawasum- head, government and people