When it happens?

The time is exactly twelve in the midnight. The world outside my room is fast asleep except for the grating noise created by the motor vehicles plying on the road a little further down. The lizards on the walls of the balcony hiss here and now. I wave aside the humming mosquitoes that pester me consistently. Blood suckers. The dogs in the streets, having nothing to do, howl their night away. Cicadas listlessly buzz at a distant and I can clearly hear the noise it makes.

For a quiet paralytic moment, I stay calm. This is the time when I am completely with myself. The floodgates open up slowly and my thoughts pour out. Initially, in bits and pieces, all fragmented, disjointed thoughts. Visually, it’s like a collage of different images put together on a white sheet of paper. It makes no sense.

Let’s try to understand and make some sense out of it because if much of my thoughts do not convey some sort of a sense, perhaps then, my head is full of nonsense. And sincerely I have a repugnant aversion for the word nonsense. It may be weird, strange, or even mysterious but not nonsense, to say the least.

There is this man, some forty or so year old that comes to my mind every time. He appears like an apparition, a shadow, for I have never been able to identify who this person is. His face is vague. Except for his startling, powerful eyes, other features of his face are very foggy. But he is tall and huge. And he looks dark.

Once when I was walking to my home, across the street, I saw this dark figure smoking a cigar. He wore black glasses and was leaning against the iron fence. Dark clouds of smoke blew out of his mouth. I was scared when I saw him standing there, staring at me.

But I collected all my guts to meet him face to face and ask him why he keeps coming to me. I wanted to ask him if he was real or just a ‘nonsense’ created by my imagination. But why should I ever imagine a dark man, following me all the time, I had thought.

I waited for the traffic to slow down, staring back at the man across the street. As I crossed the street, for a brief fraction of a second, I looked to my right to make sure there was no car coming my way. For that brief fraction, when I indulged in the habit of looking right or left before crossing the street, I lost the sight of the man. That instant, I saw a crow, the blackest of crows, fly over my head, cawing.

When I reached the other side of the street, the man was no where. He had disappeared. I looked everywhere but all I could see was people and cars, people after people, cars after cars. He was nowhere there to be seen. Confused and afraid, I increased the pace of my walk. After sometimes, I ran home. As I ran, the black figure reminded me of death.

Am I going to die? I asked myself. Am I dreaming? I think I am dreaming. This is all a dream, a very crazy dream, I tried to pacify myself. Everything is just a concoction churned out by my mind. That night I could not sleep. The image of the man kept repeating. It was around dawn that I had fallen asleep.

The next day, I went to see a doctor. I walked past the huge crowd of people at the lobby of the hospital. Sick people were every where. I hate to go to a hospital. It makes me feel sick. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The small room in the lift suffocated me. Rather I preferred walking the flight of stairs.

As I reached the second floor, everything turned white, silvery, and shiny. The reflection of the white shaft of light blinded me. For sometime, I could not see anything. The corridor that was buzzing with a lot of people was suddenly desolated. Everything around was immaculately pure and white. Not a single stain of colour.

And then suddenly, the walls started to turn red. It was blood, I could smell it. I rubbed my eyes and when I looked at it again, everything was normal. People were moving like ants. A few of them glanced at me, giving me strange looks. I shuddered. What is happening to me? I asked myself.

I decide not to meet the doctor and return home. Drinking whisky, I lay on the sofa, thinking what is happening to me. The misty face of the dark man crosses my eyes. Am I hallucinating? Or is this something to do with my brain or is it that I am going mad?

I pour myself another drink. I have almost drunk the whole bottle of whisky and I am not even least drunk. I do not add the ice and drink it neat, in one gulp. The steamy feeling as if hot vapor is going down my throat makes me feel light. Relax, calm down, I use the mantra.

I throw myself on the bed and cover my head with a pillow. I close my eyes, and try to stay calm, and composed. I remind that whatever happening is not true. These are just illusions. My brain needs some rest, I think.

I never wake up the next morning. The phone is ringing, but I can’t pick it up. I exert all the effort I can to reach the phone, but I can’t. Then I forcefully get up, and as I do, I feel as if I am being thrown out of the bed, out of my own body. I hurl across the bed to pick up the phone. And just about when I reach the phone, it stops ringing.

As I turn back, on the reflection of the mirror, I see the same body as mine, the same dress, sleeping on the bed. I turn back slowly, trembling. And I see myself there sleeping. That’s me there, I tell myself. Than who am I, who is this? I am already shivering, and I can feel my heart thump at my chest.

I rush to the mirror. I look at the mirror and I see the dark figure of the man instead of my reflection. The vague face slowly becomes clearer like the reflection that becomes visible when the water stops rippling. A pretty girl, with a smile, stands opposite to me.

You have been there lying dead for the last three days. For the last three days the phone has been ringing non-stop. It’s now time to go, she says.

She stretches her soft hand across the mirror and I take it. And I disappear in the mirror.

The dogs howl, and the cicadas listlessly buzz. The motor vehicles produce that grating noise. The mosquitoes feed on my blood. The time is exactly 12 in the midnight.

Death shall complete us?

I have lived this far and I rejoice I am still living. I rejoice at the bounty of this beautiful earth that it has so much to offer. I rejoice at the rivers that flow peacefully. I rejoice at the early morning sun rise that I have not seen for a long time. I rejoice at the sun sets, and the smell of the evening aroma filling the air I breathe. I rejoice at the scent of the flowers and the colors of the trees and the birds that fly around in the sky. I rejoice all that is mundane, all that is around me, all that is common.

But this is not enough. There is more I want from life and I am unable to quell that desire for something more. Sometimes I even do not understand what that something more is. Deep inside, an empty feeling that something is missing, that everything is not plainly fulfilling, pricks my heart to death.

And I reckon. I have had everything possible I could ask for. I have been born to loving parents, and I have siblings who love me as much as I love them. I am educated and I have a job. I have friends who stand by me through good and bad times. I live a descent life by all standards. Above all I am alive, living, breathing and feeling.

What more can I ask for?

But there is a hole that needs to be filled up. A hole that is gradually becoming wider and bigger each day. Eventually, I feel that the hole will engulf me and I will just perish as if I was never been there at all.
This incarcerating feeling turns into fear, the fear that I may never be the one I have always dreamt of becoming. This fear cuts me piecemeal as though a butcher is peeling off the skin of a live animal layer by layer. I can see the tears of pain in the eyes of the animal and feel the pain it is going through. I empathize with the animal for the pain that is hurting me is no greater than the animal’s. Just that I am lucky to be enduring the pain not having to be peeled alive.

Euthanasia is not such a bad option, I wonder. Perhaps, it is good that death could be enticed to come in a peaceful manner and silently snub the life out of you. Without a groan of pain, without the sensation and the slightest idea that you are dying. Man finally seems to have conspired with death.

The other side is where man believes lies a shroud of darkness. Am I afraid of the darkness? Or am I just afraid of not seeing the light anymore? Does death mean darkness or liberation, as some call it, from the mundane existence we are deeply rooted to? Is death just a transition to the other world of the heaven, the world of the rebirth, or the hell?

Or what if it is just nothingness thereafter? When you die, what if there is nothing but blackness? What if there is no soul, nothing called life thereafter? What if there is no hell or heaven or rebirth into different realms of existence? Perhaps, we are a mass of energy and this energy goes back to the universe it was created out of. What if there is no consciousness. I wonder.

Often I have experienced the worst of darkness where for a moment you just see blackness and nothing else. But even in that blackness I have seen illusions of somewhat bluish, some greenish rays of lines moving, sometimes I have seen whirlpools of distorted figures come and disappear in that absolute blackness? How black is the darkness?

Fumbling through a dark room looking for a torch or a mach box to light a candle, in several occasions, I have felt so blinded, deprived of my ability to see. And I have wondered that blind people must be feeling the same way. How true it is, I have never bothered to find out. But that is how I have always felt and wondered.

There is so much you will miss in a life time. A lifetime is therefore so less a time we are given. Some incompleteness will forever remain. And perhaps that’s why there is this whole concept of the other world. It is a huge consolation to hear that our journey is not ending with death. We have greater journeys to take, be it through the dark gates of hell or the golden doors of heaven.

What is incomplete can be completed there. What is left undone can be done there. You just need to have the right sense to believe it or not. But people like me, who desperately feel that time is running out of hand, and that there is not much that can be done; melancholy and misery are the best companions.

That’s why despite an unreeling sense of hopelessness, I carry on rejoicing at life at hand. That’s why I enjoy the choking puff of smoke that kills me every little inch. That’s why I rejoice when I look at people who walk the streets in millions, with a thought or so many, in their head. Because they are just like me who will die one day. That’s why I appreciate people who make merry, and live as if they are dying tomorrow.

That’s why I am writing this despite a heavy feeling that there is no use writing. It is just a mere consolation.

Written off too early

It is painstaking to be a writer. Or even to be an aspiring one. But what never stops amazing me is that every next person you meet is wishing to be a writer. That offers some sort of comfort to my embattled self. There is still hope and I have still some ground to walk. And of all that I am not alone in the same pursuit.

Calling out for my muse, and all the inspiration that I can lay my hands on, I sit staring at the blank Microsoft word opened in my old, dilapidated laptop. This should be a master-piece I bolster up.

A few minutes after, I find myself still staring on the screen. My mind is pondering, trying to be at its fastest, over a gamut of subjects, experiences, memory and issues that might intrigue a rational mind. After going through what seemed an eternity of scrupulous, thought raking, nothing seems to happen.

I go out for a smoke in the balcony. I drink a cup of sugarless tea, trying to remain focused. I look at the myriad of little worms hovering around the street light. I drift away. These creatures just live a 24-hour-life. How short? What would they do in just one day? It is not fair. But then again, what if every second is like years for them. Twenty four hours would then add to be quite a lot.

Leave that aside, what else would they be doing in a day? They have no purpose to be alive. They are just a part of the process of procreation. How many times would they have mated to keep their bloodline continue?Their existence is so fragile. And so short.

I look up into the sky overwhelmed by the feeling of mercy. In a contrasting shift of visual, huge jumbos fly over head, quite close by. Here every five minutes a plane flies over your head. This reminds me of the CNN clips of 9/11. Flashed over and over again, images of the two planes nose-diving into the twin towers have permanently frozen in my memory. What would have the people in the flat that saw the planes come crushing unto them wish for, before they were no more?

Life is so fragile. And so unsafe. There are thousand and one chances that you can be killed each new day. Survival is in fact everything. When the news of the serial blasts in Delhi sent waves of panic across a bewildered city, I was 'coolly' roaming around a heavily crowded market. I could have been in any of the markets where the blasts took place. Just that I was fortunate to be at the wrong place for all the good reasons.

Blowing out the last puff of smoke, I look up in the sky again. There is barely any star peeping out. My thoughts suddenly transform me to the mountains where I belong. The stars are very close by and every night you see them in zillions. The nights are so beautiful. I still remember, as I child, how we would sleep under the stars, counting them. Here it easy to count the stars. There are about five visible stars I can see.

I look down from the balcony, and watch strangers pass by. There is so much to write about, I think. Tomorrow I will give a fresh shot.

Betwixt life and thereafter

How would it feel, to stand at the edge of a hundredth-storey-building, with one leg dangling in the air and trying to balance the posture with the other, heedlessly gazing into the space below? Down there, minuscule looking people and cars parade like tiny ants through the travesty of man-made lanes and by-lanes. All of them moving in a helter-skelter direction.
The groves of trees look like patch of green here and shades of yellow there. Autumn wind is in the air. With my arms wide open I stand tall on top of the world, a burning cigarette sandwiched between my fingers and my other hand firmly clutching a whisky bottle. The cold wind incessantly lashes on my brittle, frost bitten face.
A queer flight of imagination invades my nonchalant mind. The primal desire to fly coupled with an instinctive temptation to be free plays weird hide-and-seek games with my thoughts. Standing there, I stare into the endless expanse of the horizon, painted with hues of red and yellow. Luminous clouds stretch across the end of the sky.
The moment was perfectly thrilling until a suicidal feeling makes me tremble. I shudder at the thought and an icy chill runs down my spine, and goose bumps sprinkle on my cold skin.
At a distant in the air, flocks of birds sing their way home. I wish for a gun to shut them up. Their squeaking exasperates me as though a man in deep contemplation of god was stirred out of his reverie. If I had a gun, I think, I would hide like a sniper and bring down each flying bird.
The next instant I become a river of compassion. But what if I kill the mother of a little bird who has just learnt to fly? I pity. Why should I kill harmless, innocent birds?
Smell of rose.
The images of the flower vase with dried flowers, the photograph lying by my bedside, her undergarments that she had left in the drawer and the ear rings and the necklace that lie on the dressing mirror rushes past my eyes. Her lonely pink bra still hangs on the balcony flapping in the breeze. Why the colour pink never stops fascinating women, I wonder.
I am sitting by the window side of a fast moving train, and I catch a glimpse of tall women dressed in black skirt with a knee length overcoat. Her head is covered with a black scarf and her eyes with a dark pair of goggles. As I try to capture that face, our eyes meet. I wonder what she must have thought that particular moment when our glances met each other.
What did I think about her? A passing moment. A passing glance! A stranger in a train, a woman of course, a beautiful woman with a sad face to be correct, or a widow who has visited her dead husband’s grave? I feel sorry for her.
Suddenly it is dark.
I grope in the pitch darkness, trying to figure out why I am alone. Where did all the boys who were smoking marijuana just a while ago go? Where are the shrieks of the stoned girls who were listening to heart wrenching sentimental songs?
I am alone.
I swing to and fro, but this time I let go off myself. I close my eyes and fall free, headlong down. I swirl round and round. Gravity is at its best. I can see the blurring lights, and feel the air desperately trying to keep me buoyant. I hit the ground hard. My head splatters, my brains ooze out of the skull, and a pool of blood flows down the road.
I lie dead.
I hear a scream of a little girl followed by sounds of laughter. The laughter fades away into the stillness of the night. I am cold. I feel water dripping down my face. And there is more water. I am in a sea of waves trying to breathe, trying to gasp for air.
I gasp for more air. This wakes me up to several, round, bulging eyes ogling at me. I am not at the sea shore or the road I fell unto. I am lying on the concrete floor, completely drenched. My marijuana smoking friends are glad I woke up. I had blacked out, for a minute, to be precise.
This is how it feels!
I have not been on top of a skyscraper but for my imagination. It was a moment of abject hypnosis. The hallucination was more real than I have ever come close to. I traded reality for fantasy and my stream of consciousness, as bizarre as it may seem, transported me to a world completely owned by the mind.
It felt good to be back. But perhaps, that’s how all dying people feel who never come back!

A Kings's dream

He is more than just revered. He is loved. He is more than just an icon. He is an inspiration. He is but more than a King. He is a true son of the soil. To the women outside his country, His Majesty Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck is the ultimate, larger-than-life prince charming. Closer home, he is the face and future of modern Bhutan. He is the captain who will steer the ship of democracy to its safe shores. He is the young, promising leader, with beautiful aspirations and dreams for his country and people. The shock that the nation experienced when His Majesty the Fourth King informed the people in December 17, 2005, that he would be giving up his throne for the crown prince has quietly ebbed away in oblivion. In hindsight, the magnanimity of this solemn decision is not only visionary but historical, not just for Bhutan but the world at large. Rightly so, in 2006, His Majesty after ruling for more than three decades handed over the throne to his heir. The young King’s first public address after assuming the responsibilities of the Monarch in December 17, 2006, proves that the initial shock of the people was unfounded. The National Day address exemplifies His Majesty’s reverence for his father’s selfless contribution to nation building, while he charts out his own dreams for the country. It is, in heart and soul, the reflection of a King’s vision and aspiration for his country. “Our first and foremost responsibilities will always be the peace and tranquility of the nation, the sovereignty and security of the country, fulfilling the vision of Gross National Happiness and strengthening the new system of democracy,” His majesty said. As Bhutan celebrates the twin occasion of hundred years of Monarchy and the coronation of a new, dynamic dragon king, history is seen repeating. A hundred years back, the people of Bhutan unanimously pledged their allegiance and confidence when they chose Sir Ugyen Wangchuck as the first Druk Gyalpo of Bhutan. A hundred years later, the Monarchy has returned its power back to the people heralding a new era in the history of Bhutan. The crowning of the Fifth Druk Gyalpo is therefore very significant, not less momentous. His Majesty Jigme Khesar is the first democratic constitutional Monarch of Bhutan. He is the guardian of the constitution, and the protector of democracy. This is true because His Majesty on repeated occasions has emphasized that his role will be that of the guide, to steer Bhutan through a peaceful process of democratization. And indeed, Bhutan saw a peaceful transition to democracy. The challenge now would be to ensure that the highest democratic ideals and principles are upheld and to further strengthen the institutions of democracy. His Majesty shares a common dream with his people. That is to make Bhutan a peaceful, prosperous and secure country. How often he has stressed that having secured political stability, peace and security, his main goal hereon will be to guarantee economic excellence and to this end, achieving the goals of Gross National Happiness. In other words, His Majesty has always emphasized on the importance of the philosophy of GNH and building a vibrant economy for Bhutan. In his speech to the graduates of 2007, His Majesty said: “For a small nation with a small population, it is vital that we have a shared national objective. We simply cannot afford to work in different directions. We must always have a common goal-the goal of achieving GNH for our people.” His Majesty shares a simple dream like any other citizen, a dream that every Bhutanese harbors. To make Bhutan a story of success in every perceivable field and to be able to pass down to the future generation a country that is distinct, developed and culturally rich. His Majesty has therefore laid utmost importance in excellence, hard work and dynamism. Understanding the vulnerability of a small nation like Bhutan in the globalized world, His Majesty has always said that ‘creating a strong economy is not only a goal’ but a necessary step on the path to success. Therefore, His Majesty has consistently encouraged the youth of the country to work harder, to vie for excellence and to be the best not just in Bhutan but in the world. “For our small kingdom, excellence must be the only standard.” As the nation comes together, united to celebrate the hundred years of Monarchy and the crowning of the Fifth Druk Gyalpo, it is important for every individual Bhutanese citizen to recline, reflect and promise that they would work toward fulfilling the nation’s dreams. Those dreams that is very much shared by our new King.

Journalism In delimma?

Undeniably, media the world over is bestowed with the responsibility of the fourth estate. This reflects how central a role the media is been given in the process of nation building, both as a prop to the other pillars of state, and as a reservoir and outlet to public information. At the same time, media is also conferred with a much greater responsibility than it is deemed to fulfill. It is the overseer of the democratic system and institutions in place. No wonder, to use the clichéd phrase, media has been called the ‘watchdog of democracy’ time and time again. Therefore, the need for any media to be objective, non-partisan, apolitical and if possible, a non-commercial entity, is a vital requisite. Media professionals have no ideologies, as such. Journalism is supposed to be their ideology. The onus of being a journalist is therefore huge. The media or the people who run the media cannot be subject to manipulation. Ideally, they are the messengers of truth. Bhutan has both a budding media and a fledgling democracy. Period. To make these two succeed will be the test of our times. In fact, history is unfolding its course, and there is no room for any fatal mistakes. The road ahead may not necessarily be a smooth ride, but we cannot afford to be the ‘take it easy’ kind. Not at any cost. However, a few developments in the recent times have been very disquieting. This is apropos of the bitter, almost outspoken and open finger pointing between the two leading print media of the country. Bhutan Times wrote a story that literally tried to correct the story Kuensel ran regarding the Pay Commission’s new pay package for the civil servants. In return, Kuensel got back with an answer that was more debilitating. And again in retaliation BT stuck back even harder. Underneath the calm surface is an ongoing media war. This is just a case in point. In wake of these events, one thing stands out clear-the purpose of journalism is lost, if not totally, it is at least dying. Credibility, the greatest asset a media organization can claim to, is at stake here. And to protect it, they can cross all lines of propriety and ethics. Cheap, tabloid contents are seeping into our media too. The forum has become a spot for blame game, naming and shaming, accusations and counter accusations. It is made worse when media organizations themselves are licking the dust, trying to prove the other wrong, in some kind of desperate move to maintain its status quo. This is not journalism. A closer look confirms that a bitter rivalry is brewing up actually. If we read between the lines, a primal battle for supremacy, an intention writhed with vengeance, and at times, a blatant display of sheer heavy headedness seems to be at play. There is no greater shame than this. True journalism it seems can only be taught in the classrooms. Not practiced in the field. Journalism is about FACTS. The ever increasing competition between the news organizations to feed these facts to their audience at the earliest has added a new dimension to the business of news. Journalism has become a slave to information, and time is a hard task master. Often in the maddening rush to be the first to break the news, media organizations have jumped the gun. In doing so, they have made mistakes. Forgivable mistakes though. What can be done at best is to follow the old rule: if you are in doubt, leave out. Or if you are in doubt, find out. Journalism is at its cross roads, not just in Bhutan but across the world. From its serious, social bent, journalism has become a thriving money minter. It is a business, through and through. No matter how hard you try to segregate the news from the business, the two is bound to each other like Siamese twins. Therefore it is no surprise when editorial decisions and autonomy are over shadowed by commercial interests. It is indeed no surprise that news has become a commodity like any other. Survival is the question here. And to survive, a few rules are bent easily and justifiably so. To cite a popular example, before writing a negative story on any corporate organization that gives the media huge lot of advertisements, which means money, the media would re-think its decisions for the umpteenth time. And somehow somewhere down the line, a compromise is made. This is not journalism. This is a freakish blow to the whole concept of good journalism. It’s time for the media to do some soul searching. Bhutan as a developing nation has a plethora of development issues to be addressed. But there is barely any coverage on the rural issues. There is a gamut of health and environment issues too that media can pick up. News these days is about sex, crime, and controversies because nothing sells like them. In the course, many crucial issues of social importance are getting willfully neglected. Who knows much about what is happening in the most remote and backward regions of Bhutan? I would like to believe that people they are anyway happy because a few studies have shown more than ninety percent of Bhutanese populace as living a happy life. (Courtesy National Housing and Population Census, 2005.) But in reality this is far from true. Which reporter would want to walk five days at end for a story? Which media house would spend more than it takes to do a story to send its reporter behind the mountains where people live in absolute poverty, in dire need of help and development? Media has increasingly misplaced its priority. Prioritizing what is news and what is not, is not just defined by the so-called theory that media gives what the people want. The ABCD of journalism-Accuracy, Brevity, Clarity and Discretion-is what media professionals need to go back to. The discretion here is giving not just everything that people want to know but what they need to know as well. And of course, people will want everything. If they ask for a nude picture of a celebrity, will the media flash the picture on the front page the next day? Many tabloids do this. It is visual pornography, not journalism. In Bhutan the media is starting to believe that they are all powerful. They can criticize the government, the judiciary, and the parliament. They are the ultimate voice of democracy. Even the Constitution has bestowed so much right and freedom on the media. These are positive developments. Which country will not want to have an independent and a brave media? But if they lose track of their focus and responsibilities, and why they are what they are, they do not have the right to be. We do not need a renaissance of some sort. Many things are still going in the right direction. Media houses are trying to out do each other, and in the process, they are producing good journalism. But that does not mean the media has the right to come out in the open, crying foul, trying to settle scores and prove that they are an edge ahead of the other. What happened is a bad precedence; a little maturity will undo the harm. Remember saying this; “This story is in the interest of the public.” Many journalists would have justified when they are doing a sensitive story by saying that they are doing it for the public interest. If that is so, the medium belongs to the public. Journalists and editors are mere actors. So let’s not over-act. Bhutanese audience and readers have been so far forgiving. It is a pity that they can still be so forgiving. But may be not for long. It is time Bhutanese media comes of age.

What’s all this cribbing about? Home is where the heart is!

This is a rant, not a righteous note, read one. Keep it simple, stupid, screamed another. The last two issues of Bhutan Observer carried two thought raking columns written by equally two unorthodox writers of our times. At least so.

Were there too much of ranting? Or too much individual conscience bickering for some sort of social transformation? Change is here, but is the change any better? Everything is not going right, it seems. That is what I grasped from my reading. But nothing is worst either. And perhaps, this would be an understatement. Home is where the heart is.

So here are some more rants, a little simple and stupidly put.

For more than nine months I was away from home. Each new day I had longed to come back home. Each new morning how had I wished I would get up from my shabby bed to see the sun rise from the mountains. How I wished to feel the chilly morning breeze run down my nostrils. Everything home was beautiful. Instead, damp, polluted air went down my throats. The air is poison there, so is the water. Home is where the heart is. Very true.

For the last nine months, I had walked the awry, crowded, and almost obnoxious streets of Delhi. The traffic there is indeed a hotchpotch of cars, breaking rules here and now. Blaring horns, abuses flying from the windows-I had had enough of those ‘stuffs’. Home is where the heart is.

The rising mercury gnaws you to death. The frequent black outs only add to the displeasure. It is the same down there too, a little rain and Delhi goes down the drain. Politics is dirty. Murders are rampant. The roads are dangerous. The system is corrupt. It is not a safe place. Home is where the heart is.

So when I finally got the break away-I decided this summer break, I will travel the length and breath of my country. I would appreciate what I never did. I would go closer to what makes Bhutan a unique country. The two columns of BO was quite a contradiction. It was quite a disappointment that so much is going wrong.

I would not blame the snail-speed life here. I would not crib when water does not run in the tapes. I would not complain of the long, meandering queue at the hospital. I would not blame, of course, that everything is so horrible! Home is where the heart is!

This is a righteous note, not a rant.

Bhutan crashed out of the SAFF Cup. What a tragic crash?

Last 30 seconds remaining. A free kick for team India. A substitution for the Bhutanese goal keeper anticipating that Bhutan will survive the last few seconds to a penalty kick out. The Indian player makes the free kick, the ball lands around the penalty area and players of the two teams jostle for the ball-the Indian team attempting to wrap up the game in the last minute and the Bhutanese team desperately trying to clear the ball away. The clock is ticking. In a twist of events, an Indian player makes it to the post. It is a goal. And an end to the Bhutanese dream of reaching the finals.

It was a tragedy for the Bhutanese team and every one who has followed the match glued to their television sets. The least we had expected was to reach the penalty kick out and try our luck. Perhaps, we had a chance there.

Indeed it was a tragedy. The boys had sweated out through out the game displaying a brave show of skill and professionalism. The fifteen minute goal from left winger Kinley Dorji was brilliant. It definitely upped the morale of the Bhutanese team while it must have send jitters through the Indian players. After all they were playing with the weakest team and in their earlier matches with Bhutan; India had thrashed Bhutan on several occasions.

For the first time, the Indian team, the top-gun of the eight teams in the tournament, was cautiously creating their chances. Sunil Chhetri’s equalizer was a saving grace. But the Bhutanese players did not lose heart. They were fighting hard and at times, even got good chances of scoring a goal.

If winning and losing is part of a game. We have indeed lost in style. The commentator put it in a very right note, “the tiny country of Bhutan, once a laughing stock of football, is at its best today.”

The semi final match was indeed an act of redeeming our respect. The match not only brought out the best in our players but also showed to the world that we are not willing to stay at the bottom of the ranks. The semifinal match with India was a superb display of grit, determination and hard work by the players.

If this is the spirit, then Bhutanese football sure has a long way to go. Congratulations to Team Bhutan for their mind blowing performance in the SAFF semifinals with India. For me, personally, reaching the semifinals and taking the Indian footballers to the brink of desperation, was victory enough. The boys put on a great show.

Drinking, smoking, trying to be free

Drinking, smoking, trying to free my mind, goes a song. It rightly strikes a chord but for many drinkers and smokers. Like me. Drinking, smoking, I have blown my life away. Over a drink, over a cigarette, I have seen people change, from meek, hesitant first timers to habitual guzzlers. That’s how they begin their drinking careers.

Thereon life is never the same without the regular diet of alcohol and dose of nicotine. I have tried it all. Just for fun. Now I am hooked to it. Sadly. I start my day by lighting a fag. What a way?. But I have been doing that for years now unless when I am home with my parents. Period. I don’t know until when I will do so. Not very long perhaps.

I have often contemplated of giving up smoking. Many a time I tried. People say it depends on our determination and will power. Thousand and one times, I have tried to quit the cancer stick. At the most I could do was for two months. After that I was back again with my old, hard-to-die habits. That’s why somebody rightly said: “It is easy to quit smoking; I have tried it several times.” I did try several times, too.

It’s a lame excuse. I thought the banning of tobacco in Bhutan would do me some good. Not really. It just raised the price of being a smoker. One time in Bumthang a few years back, I paid one hundred and fifty bucks for a packet of cigarettes. It was the most expensive smoking of my life. To hell with the ban.

I enjoy the smoke and the liquor so much. Despite the killer it is. When I am alone, the smell, the fire, and the smoke gives me company. Although it is bad company. When I am depressed, the icy chill whiskey going down my throat offers an unnatural comfort. The high afterward is an added pleasure. The combination of the two as a close, great boozer friend of mine puts is the perfect combo.

”Drink wine and make merry. This is the moment with drunken friends. This moment is life.” (This is a little diluted version). I have plagiarized this lines from the movie, “Unfaithful”, where the notorious playboy uses this pickup line to seduce the gorgeous heroine-a married woman and a mother. I use it otherwise. I use this line time and time again just to have a reason to celebrate life.

There is a charm in being drunk. While some turn boisterous, others become violent. Some drink to forget pain. Some drink to rejoice. That is what makes a bar such a fun place to hang out in. You meet people with stories. The talks doing the rounds. The gossips. Who did who? And who did what? You name it, you have it all. And you have action (fights) too. There is drama, there is emotion, there is comedy, and there is tragedy. If this is life then there is too much of it out there.

Me-I drink because it is in my blood. My father drinks like hell even now. My father’s father and his father’s father drank. Mind you, they did not die of liver cirrhosis. Whenever I go to see my father, we drink together. It is a pleasure drinking with my dad and to listen to all his stories. Sometime later I would like to write down his stories as well. I have already thought about the title, how about, “The drunken days of my dad.”

So Drink and make merry! But if you are driving better make sure, your sober friend is the one who is at the wheels. In an ad which features Michael Schumacher was a line from this F1 champ: “When I go out drinking. I have got somebody to drive me.”
I completely agree.

Why I love reading editorials of Bhutan Observer

I may have my own biases when I declare with almost blunt prudence that the editorials in Bhutan Observer are good. By which I do not mean that the editorials in the other two newspapers are not as good. Perhaps, they need to do a little catching up. Or worst, be more succinct and worth-reading. Sometimes, even bold and open in their opinions.

After all the editorial is the voice of the newspaper. Its stand on certain issues? It can praise a worth praising development or condemn what it feels worth derision. It has to speak for the people. So it is-the tongue of the people, a voice for the voiceless.

Actually I was never a fan of BO. Until recently. And if I am at all writing this with an honest confession of being a loyal BO fan, the credit goes to the daring, bold, and up front editorials it has produced over the last few months. Keep up the great work.

A self proclaimed internet junkie that I am, I have over time become very finicky about the kind of material I feed on. I do read the other news editorials too and this has given me enough reasons to make a comparison. But my attempt should not be misunderstood by other newspapers or their readers as an act to blotch the image of the newspapers. It is a very lonely, subjective and honest expression of my opinions, thoughts and conclusions. .

The best editorial so far I have read in BO is the one titled “Media Rights.” It raised a burning issue. Private media has come into the fray but are they given equal access and opportunities? The Indian prime Minister visited Bhutan to mark our country’s smooth and successful transition to democracy. It was democracy that took precedence even for his visit. But sadly, and to put it more strongly, it was indeed an abject situation when the private media was not allowed when the heads of the two governments met.

The sham of democracy and the lies of the government’s consistent assurance of equal media rights came out in the light. The red tapes of officialdom denied BO and BT their rights in a transparent show of discrimination. BO bothered to raise this before the public. I don’t know how the government took it. Very badly, I believe. Or how the people reacted to it? Given Bhutanese people’s obnoxiously complacent and easy-going nature, I believe the issue was just another cry of desperation. Democracy is here.

“The constitution guarantees the freedom of media. Private media was encouraged to keep abreast with the gift of democracy by His Majesty the Fourth King. A democracy is implausible in the absence of the freedom of press. It should be clear now, in no uncertain terms, that all media should be given equal access and opportunity,” read the editorial. Bold indeed. More than that, it was asking for what it deserved. This editorial sheds light on a system that is flawed. We gotta change what needs to be changed.

Confidential. The editorial was a scathing criticism on the system of job selection maneuvered by the all powerful RCSC-Royal Commission for Sinister Conspiracy. The Secretary must have surely called up the editor-in-chief the morning the newspaper was published. He must have surely given the editor the benefit of doubt, if not his piece of mind. What a reward for bringing to the fore what the nation needs to know and think of?

What is in a signboard? What is in a uniform signboard-blue and white? The Thimphu City Corporation has argued the insistence of putting up uniform sign boards on the pretext of aesthetics. TCC had even pushed this forward to the edge and did not consider the questions raised by the stakeholders-the business community.

BO explained it well:
“The much flogged explanation is always aesthetics. Aesthetics -where does that come from? Certainly not from someone who has any notion of beauty. Leave aside business logic. The beauty of a Times Square in New York or the Champs Elysees in Paris does not come from uniformity. It comes from the mind blowing disarray of colors. The same can be said about the colors on our traditional houses. It is an added attraction.”

This week the editorial talks RICE. In the wake of global food security and inflation in food prices across the globe, it throws light on Bhutan’s fragile situation. Agriculture is the answer, like it or not. Farmers need to be encouraged to farm. Rural Bhutan should be like any place a youth will want to be-job opportunities, basic civic amenities and a choice to live life well. This would put an end to rural-urban drift.

The Government should work toward food self sufficiency. To depend on other countries can be lethal. The editorial raises it all.

Hope to reading many more interesting and important issues.

After a year, nothing has changed much

Today, the same time around last year, I was a sad person. Today this time around, it is still a sad day. After a year, nothing seems to have changed much. The old memories repeat itself fresh bringing back sad thoughts. The ghost of the heartbreak will never leave me in peace.

As the floodgates of memerobalia open, the hurt feelings resurrect to life. I find myself in a piteous situation. It is a sad day. So it seems this day will forever remain so throughout my life. Some wounds just wont heal.

It is a poignant moment filled with nostalgia for me. I fought hard all this time. I thought I had moved on, a year ahead. But it was a gross misconception. I had lived all this time pretending to be living a normal life, like any other. I was wrong. I was running on the treadmill, getting exhausted but reaching no where.

I had wasted the last one year. How I had promised that I would change for the good. All false promises-vain, empty and broken. I had preserved all those letters, all those pictures, we had exchanged in good times. Deep inside my heart I had never been able to forget her which I should have done this day last year.

I would think about her in a fit of anger. And thinking I would get more angry and hurt. Sometimes, I would recollect for the sheer pelasure of the good moments. When I was lonely, I would often think of her and miss her. sometimes I would dream about her, of happier times. I would cry and pity myself.

Through and through, I had never gotten over her. She had always been inside my mind, turning my head away when I would look at another girl. She was always there inside me when I would toy with the idea of falling in love. Nothing had changed. She was around me all this time. her ghost never left me. It was the precision of my vieled pretence that never showed off what hid behind.

It takes time to come to terms with reality. Some take longer. Some do not. I have travelled a year now and I am the same person-sick, depressed, unwilling to change, still suffering in silence. But for how long? I asked this question almost for a hundrendth time today.

And here I am, telling my sob story again. I wont get any buyers I know. But it helps me a lot. But today I feel good about something. I have done something today for celebrating a year of my break-up. No I did not write any poetry. Nor did I write songs. I did not even take a swig of whiskey. I am sober and I did something sensible, by all standards.

I took out the bulk of the love letters, notes, chits, and photographs that I had preserved with love. I burnt it all. Today, I said goodbye to the lady who I had loved so dearly. She had been such a wonderful inspiration. I know perhaps, this day, the same time around next year, I may write something new. A different story. A happier one, of course!

Is Bhutan Prepared for a catastrophic disaster?

The devastating earthquakes in China recently have left the Giant deeply shaken. The death toll, according to media reports, have surpassed the 60, 000 mark. And fears abound that it may rise in the days to come as thousands are still reported missing. Sichuan province meanwhile has been turned into a heap of rubble.

A little down the map, the neighboring country of Myanmar is trying to recover from the worst cyclone hit in its entire history. Cyclone Nargis that struck Myanmar a few weeks back was little more than an act of adding-fuel-to-fire to an already politically disturbed country.

In both situations, nature’s wrath has wreaked havoc on human lives and properties. These two cases are stark reminders that disasters-natural or manmade-are destructive, painful and tragic. The expanse of which can sometimes go beyond man’s reckoning. Do not forget the tsunami that killed people in hundreds of thousands.

As we see the drama of human suffering unfurl in these two countries even as rescuers and aid providers rush to the scene to save lives, a thought gains prominence. What if such disaster of such great magnitude strikes Bhutan? Are we prepared for the worst? Is Bhutan equipped to respond to the disaster? Do we have a disaster management programme that is holistic, inclusive and with a capacity to respond instantaneously?


Blessed, and peacefully cloistered in the Himalayas, Bhutan has so far been fortunate. I pray that even hereafter Bhutan continue to enjoy unprecedented peace and prosperity. But certain facts cannot be overruled or sidelined. We cannot and should not rule out the probability of an eminent disaster although even this thought (touch wood) chills my heart. We should not forget that instead of China it could have been us. And it would not come as a surprise because geologically Bhutan is located in the danger zone where massive earthquakes can occur.

The question is not about why but what if. In being prepared is in our own best interest. If a huge country like China can feel the blow, just place our country in such malignant position. It sends shudder through my spine.

Here and there, in little tits and bits, we did experience our own share of disasters. Punakha floods in 1992. Earthquakes that did not do much harm. Erosions that blocked roads for days. Forest fires continue to malign us.

But comparatively and considerably, these are small incidents. Rather. Warnings of glacial lake outburst and floods in Punakha have done its rounds for a while now.

But what is being done? Even the plan to build the Punatshangchu Hydro power project is taking off. Engineers have said that the dam could resist the volume of water from the flood. That is good news but how true and fact-based are their statements. The flood is not here and even the dam is not constructed. Lets see who wins.

People living by the riverside are at great risk. If the 2010 flood is eminent, or even if it is not sure, chances cannot be taken. The government needs to take measures to relocate people with good compensation packages.

Only a few weeks back heavy cyclone blew off hundred of rooftops across the eastern districts of Bhutan. Many were left homeless in this wake of events.

The positive note is that the new government did not lose any time to reach out to the people affected. It responded swiftly and extended all possible help that could be extended to the beleaguered people.

Quite perturbed by the incident members of the parliament and the national council alike raised the need to have a systematic, disaster management programme for the country. While some said rescue force should be introduced, others pressed for a trauma centre. These are new ideas. New necessities of the time.

We may as well need a bomb squad. Why not? After the serial bomb blasts that rocked Bhutan in the eve of the first democratic elections, the need for a bomb squad cannot be ignored.

A few months before that bomb blasts, there was a bomb scare in Phentsholing. Somebody had left a carton and luggage in front of the Mic cinema hall. In a fit of reckless response, the fire brigade of Phentsholing flushed the bags and the carton to check if it at all it was a bomb.

To everyone’s relief, it turned out not to be.

But the question lingered in my mind, what if it had been a bomb? The fire brigade would have helped it to explode instead of diffusing it. Their incompetence (we can’t blame them either-they are suppose to be fire fighters not bomb diffusers) may cost a life or two. Or perhaps lot many. This incident very well explains why we need a bomb squad by now. The idea of having a high profile intelligence service is an appealing one too. For how long can we depend on the Indian forces to help us?

So far-nothing is done by the government; there are the protective deities we can always look upon. Perhaps, they have always been Bhutan’s best disaster management programmes. Pray to the Gods.

The reward of love is the experience of loving

At a far away place,

In meadows, in parks, under a tree,

I imagine, lovers soaked in rain.

Yet so aloof,

Rendezvous in a mid monsoon afternoon,

Eating chocolates, sharing kisses.

A perfect world of Adam and Eve

Once upon a time, sometimes on the 9th of July, I met this thin, frail woman. In every sense of the word we were actually a weird union. In contrast to her, I am a huge, colossal mass. But that time, the small part which I call happiness, (In pursuit of happiness) we clicked together perfectly. Sometimes, too daringly perfect.

So it all happened that beautiful summer night. Love struck me, and I found a new reason for living, a new meaning that completed my life. Often time stood still, in midst of shimmering rain, tranquil evenings, and under fluorescent moonlit nights. All those beautiful moments I spent with her were a slice of heaven. Now I relish in the thought that these moments have been in exact precision etched in the diaries of time. I often sweep through the pages to make myself feel that if there were bitter times, there were better times too.

Evanescence came. Evanescence went. But it was like a furious storm that destroyed and leveled to the ground all that stood tall. And exactly on the 9th of July, a year later, I found myself torn apart, broken down in spirit and soul. A lovely year came to a close, with a broken heart and a lame spirit. I called it quits. This time for sure, at least or otherwise I would like to believe. I made it the 11th commandment of my life; Thou shall not love any more for thou shall grieve the pain of forlorn.

So many times I reminded myself that life is not a bed of mughal roses, of palaces and princess. So many times I felt defeated. Yet it moved on. The pain of living was difficult to bear, but the pain of not living was too fearful. So I held on the last string of hope and I survived this long. Life dragged on and I followed it, ruthlessly. Often life fled me when I came about it. It was a race, me doing the catching up.

However, over time, I made it to myself that I shall never love a woman again. To be true, I could never dare after the pain I went through. A dark shadow of fear loomed around and gripped with the fear of getting hurt, I never ventured out. This phase was the most barren part of my life.

Basically I was torn, pulled apart by the forces of my conscience and the void of my existence. The net result: I was completely shattered. I went through disappointment and depression, saw and experienced the ugly part of my mind. And again I promised I shall never love. I call this phase the hibernation part. I grew thick fats to ward off Cupid’s shafts.

I went through the five stages of break up too; a close friend of mine would often talk about. First it was the incredulity stage where I could not believe she had left me for another man. The second, the anger and resentment phase where I was infuriated by what she did to me. The third stage was the bargaining phase where I coaxed, begged and cried for her to love me again. The fourth stage was depression, where through days and lonely nights I became the prisoner of my own mind. The fifth stage was the acceptance.

Finally I accepted the truth and decided to move on with my life. I went through it all, I swear. I questioned myself time and again and tried to find answers to each problem that throbbed my way. Answers found, I experienced a serene whiff of sanity and pleasure-the joy of life. In my pursuit to know myself, better the each passing moment, I delved so deep, neither did I find the person in me nor did I come out of the mental pit. Period.

When I was least expecting, then miracles started happening. All over again. One drowsy afternoon when my mind had lulled to slumber, I was woken up by the glaring noise of my message ring tone. In sloth, I picked up the phone, cursing. With my eyes refusing to open, I read the message on the scarred screen on my phone. A new number. But interesting stuff. The weekend is booked.

I meet this girl well as strangers but when I leave her I felt I had known her for ages. Fountains of sparks and stars flew all over in my head. It is just a small spark that lights a fire. I had found my spark. If hope is there to stay, I am here to change my world. For the better of course. Darkness fell on me but I am seeking the light. My heart beat a little faster as I wrote this down; I felt a surge of blood rush through my spine, and I knew, to say sorry takes nerve, to forgive, love.

It is so divine to fall in love and to be loved. Even the idea of falling in love is enchanting. She came and gave a new lease of life to me. She healed my wounds, held my hand, and I never felt lonely. I found another meaning to go on living, for a long time from now. Happily. This small part of my life is happiness.

I will never fall in love again. I had lied.

We live in the world of our mind

“Everybody, deep inside, is a lonely person,” quipped Wind Girl, a woman with whom I often chat, during one of our many conversations.

That singular line in its brevity had the capacity to catapult me into a process of deep reckoning. My eyes kept on staring at the bright computer screen while my mind worked itself out to find a suitable response to what she said. Not knowing what to say, I typed, “I believe everyone is a lonely person, deep down inside,” reiterating what she had said a couple of minutes earlier.

Those words were too powerful for me. It summed up, in a few words, all I had been. And perhaps, coming out of Wind Girl’s own personal experience made it life size. Thereafter, I experienced a prolonged feeling of dejavu. A dreamy kind of aura captured my thoughts, and for once I knew, it was this loneliness deep inside that had made me miserable all this while. The words were like a signpost that directed me to travel within as if it read like an arrow pointing “Go Inside.”

So before I went to sleep that night, I examined myself thoroughly. As I plunged headlong into the muddle of my existence, it opened the floodgates to weirdest of my imagination. I tried to disentangle every complex travesty of my life. I came close to getting some answers. Many remained just as questions.

There are people who cannot be on their own. Even for a minute. Yet in contrary there are people who wish to be loners, happy and comfortable in their own company. I fell out from both these categories. I belonged to the third group. And a strange one at that. I was a person who would be as happy in a company of beautiful friends as I was alone. That’s why I say it is paradoxical. The secret of my misery is however too confusing to understand or explain it. There is barely a thin line that separates what is misery from what is not. Often one overlaps the other, and trapped in this chaotic scheme of things, I am a lost soul.

I am a lonely person even among these beautiful people. I would laugh as well and deep inside, I would yet find myself so alienated from the external world. I live in the small four-walled vastness of my mind. A dangerous, dark, and sinister cave where I lived a life of a recluse.

It is like the small room in an attic where as a little boy I would often go there alone and sit for hours. Dreaming of the world that I wanted to be in. Building castles on the sands of time. Only to be washed away by the furious waves of reality. But today, I have no such little room where I can escape into and breathe a moment of respite. Therefore, I read crazy books written by equally crazy authros for mere distractions. I tried my hand on some self-help books too. But it did not help me.

Now, I have become an internet bug. I spend hours and hours traveling in the cyber space, devouring all that I can lay my hands on. And at the end of it, I look back and wonder why I wasted so much time. The next day, I am there again, only to repeat the routine. It offers me but little solace. The only time I experience a little joy is when I meet equally emotional and sad people like me, who have gone through this phase of life. But had come out as winners. They are my inspiration.

When they say, “boy, there is so much to do and so less time. Look everybody has a problem or two; we can’t just stand and be stared at by those moving past us. We have to move along or ahead of them,” it reminds me of what I have not been all this time.

It falls unto me as a hard awakening to a nightmarish dream. I feel this surge of energy rush in my veins, and an optimistic determination to overcome this lethargy, grips me. These strangers I talk to make me walk the extra mile. These strangers to whom I pour all my sob stories, save me a day at a time. I relate with these people I have never met or seen and with their experiences I am not sure about. And sometimes even wonder what lives they must be living through. The best part of it is that I understand what they say. They speak the language of the hurt, the depressed and those who have risen up against odds. They speak my tongue, and most importantly, for me.

Now you may wonder, what I have written. Confused minds can only write something as confusing as this. I sway in the winds of inconsistency. This phrase-constantly inconstant-best befits me. Perhaps, some people are just incorrigible. Like me.

For the larger part of my time, I am a lonely dreamer, an escapist, desperately trying to run away into the Alice’s Wonderland or some beautiful place where I can find peace. That is the fact of the matter. So I am still dreaming and looking for that rabbit hole that will take me to that fairyland san any problem.

But the tragedy of our dreams is we see it all alone!

Home Sweet Home

I flew into Delhi with vibrant memories of the mountains that I last saw from high above the clouds. As I parted ways with the shrinking mountains, rivers and the trees, until it disappeared, somewhere deep inside, it hurt.

I had seen and lived with these all through my life. But I had never realized how much they would mean to me. The departure was painful. And thinking I would not see this country for the next two years of my life, I was fighting hard to hold back tears.

Almost nine months down the road, I have learnt to live my life the Delhiite way. Not to say that I have forgotten my roots or embraced a brand new culture. At best it can be termed as adaptation.

Amidst the heat and bustle of incessant traffic, damp and polluted air, it seemed as if the last nine months were an eternity in itself. A momentary freeze of time and space. To my charm and chagrin, more so to the latter, my first experience with India was terrible. Or rather terrifying.

Perhaps, what Robert George David, the mafia turned writer, described in his book, Shantaram, (the first book I picked up from the streets of Delhi) about the overwhelming beauty of India, did not quite seem to get into my head. Rather, I felt that what he called beauty was just as appalling to me in the beginning.

It was after living here, after getting to know and understand the complex city culture, that I realized the writer was not so much wrong as he tended to over do. The streets that once appeared so obnoxious and filthy; the beggars at every next corner who would nag you to death; the daily exchange of banters with the auto drivers and rickshaw pullers; all that I dreaded and despised, suddenly seemed so normal. So natural. As if I had lived here for ages.

India is not a land of snake charmers. India is not always the land of rogues, cheats and pickpockets. Just a few of them may be, from the millions. Quite Negligible. It was here my preconceptions were demystified.

There is much more to India than what we are accustomed to think of. So much more than what meets the eye. In a metropolis like Delhi life can be difficult. It is. But I am growing to love it. Every bit of my stay here. It has a charm of its own, a romance of its own albeit without those trees, mountains and the rivers, and that quiet serenity back at home. I do not know what others feel or felt. But I love Delhi. And I hate Delhi at the same time. Delhi sometimes is lovely. Sometimes, dreadful and gory. It is fun and drudgery as well. Rightly, it is a city of paradoxes and endless contradictions.

You can meet the best of humans here. Or the worst. From people driving posh sports cars to destitute, homeless ones. You may have a beautiful life. Or no-life at all. Delhi has it all.

After I came here, it occurred to me that I had come closer to myself. I do not know why, but often I feel I am one among the millions who walk the streets everyday here. One face, one mind, one lost soul among a strange crowd. Life is no longer simple, calm and happy-go-lucky. It is a rush. Every body is rushing. Every body is shouting. Everybody is doing one thing or the other. Everybody is fighting for survival. To keep alive. I am being a small part to it. No mater what.

But often, how I miss the silent stillness of home. Somebody rightly said, the idyllic Himalayan kingdom is a country forgotten in time. By this did he mean something more than just these words. I wonder. The land of thunder dragon is sleeping peacefully, untouched by the paranoia of the modern ‘rush.’ Life is simple up there. So let it be. Let it be a fairyland, as the world likes to think. With birds, bees and flowers, rainbows and clouds, with lovely sunsets and sunrises. If it is magical, let it be. I miss home, in its entirety.

I miss those red chilies, those doma pani, and those rounds of special courier at Om bar. Those sleepless nights at BT. Those revelries, those beautiful highland lass; those moments of life, I miss them dearly. And many more.

A deep contemplation however reveals that I had missed so much at home too. I would have missed, had I not come to this part of the world, an experience of a lifetime. I had nearly missed the joyrides in a rickshaw; the experience of troubled pleasure traveling in the obnoxious traffic. The fearful joy of getting run down by the Blue line (killer) buses. I had nearly missed the sweet Indian tea. I had nearly missed the blazing wrath of summer, lecherous ogle of strangers, the paranoia and the frustration of living here.

When I will finally go back home, I know I will not blame the turtle speed life up there. I will not blame the B-mobile network congestion. I will not blame the long queue in the hospital. I will not blame politics is dirty. I will not blame when water does not run in my taps. I have seen worse things. Home is where the heart is.

In the company of beautiful women

All the beautiful women I met in my life have left a lasting impression on my mind. All of them have left a little of their beauty in me as they moved past. And the irony is most of them do not even realize how much good they have done to me.

So many beautiful women came in and went out from my life. Some stood and walked with me, some flashed like lightning across my eyes, leaving me dazzled. Some never looked back. A few held my hands. And still fewer kissed me.

There were, however, quite a few, who left their mark, imprinted in my memories. These are the wonderful women with whom I have spent some of the best moments of my life.

I was a born lover. The feeling of love ran in my blood when I was too young to even understand the mysteries of the world. I was a little kid, hardly three years old, when I met my first love. She was a beautiful woman, probably in her twenties. I said I will grow up and marry her. Consequently, I grew up thinking about her, thinking of falling in love with a woman like her. Her beauty was the defining parameter when ever I looked at any woman.

By the time I was 18, a man enough, I shed those good old conceptions as childish fantasy. I fell in love with a real woman this time. It was a shy relationship. My heart would thump, everytime, I stood before her, searching for words. She was too coy to make a move.

But love we did. I learnt to write long colourful love letters. Those days were beautiful. I learnt to write poetry. I learnt to express my feelings in words. And I would be almost flattered when my friends wanted me to write their love letters too. This woman made me a poet, and I worshiped her beauty like a faithful servant.

While my every stint with a woman was short and sweet sojourn, I have preserved the values I have acquired from all of them. Destiny had other plans. Two of us never kept our promises. Years later when I was in college, I knew she was married. I only wished that her husband loved her as much as I did.

CUt to college. This is another phase of my life where I seasoned as a lover of beauty. This time, I was more close to reality than anytime before. She would sit right infront of me. All the time, I would dream about her. She was a different experience, altogether. She was that dark beauty who stole my heart away. And helplessly, I just sat dreaming.

It was a secret love, which I did not disclose for a year. When finally I did, I got the answer I had feared.So I see-sawed, from love to indifference, and again back to loving her. Next wonderful woman was just around the corner by then.

She was the magical soccerer who bewitched me in every sense of the word. With her I spent two best weeks of my life. Later I wrote a poetry, a Fortnight's fling dedicated to her. When she finally left me, I promised her that I will dedicate 108 poems for her. I still write, although she is married and has a kid.

Then entered the fiery, voluptous woman. She was passionate about love and serious about getting down with life. She gave a new leash of life to me. She made me feel the most important person in this world. she was caring to every detail.

She would lavishly shower her love on me and unabashedly demand that I love her with all my heart. She made me so depended. How often I had cried on her lap when I felt miserable. She would be there for me always, at any crossroads of my life. She changed my life.

However, things were bound to change. Perhaps, I took her for granted, or may be, she had changed over time. Everyone does. It was painful to part ways. Actually it had always been painful not to be loved.

Meanwhile, I moved on. I have leant that love is a mysterious feeling. It has, like all things, a beggining, a middle and an end.

Many months later, I chanced upon a gem again. She stood by me. She doted on me. She made me realize that human beings have a beautiful heart. But I never loved her. This time I was afraid to. So she gave up. I believe she is seeing somebody right now. I wish good for her.

So here I am, on my own. I feel lonely but I have learnt to live my life. I sleep alone. And I dream alone. I have no promises to keep. I take each day at a time.

'Bhutan is a great country, but not for me'

She was following her dreams. Perhaps, too recklessly. But as fate would have it her dreams were in store in a world far away from hers.

Sonam Yangki, turned 19, took this giant step to give up her studies and travel westward. In pursuit of her dreams. She made this decision and never looked back.

At the airport on the time of departure, she had wiped the last trail of tears on her face, and cast an ominous glance to the world she was leaving behind. She knew she would not see this beautiful country for years to come. Or never again.

Since then seven years have lapsed in between. And in the intervening years, countless imaginable things happened in her life.

The fond memories of her native land spring up at the very word of home. She alone knows the pain of missing, even as she says, “Bhutan is a great country, but not for me.” But deep inside she realizes that her home beckons her, as much as her heart wishes for.

Down memory lane, she says, she had qualified for her tertiary education when she decided to leave for Europe. “Maybe I had other plans in life. I had always wanted to get married, have a happy family, so on and fort,” she says. “And problems at the home front added to the misery of studying. So I had to work, and do something for my family.”

And work she did a lot to earn. From babysitting to working as a bar tender, she has done it all. “More than my survival, it was about saving every last penny to send it back home,” she says of the hard times she went through. “Those were the times when I realized I did not have a friend. I was a lonely woman fighting a lone battle of life.”

many a time, she wanted to rewind the moment she had looked back from the staircase of the airplane. She had wished if only she had gone back. Not long before she realized that she was sinking in a muddle of depression. The angst and paranoia of the West had already started eating her life away.

“I was emotionally unstable. I was unhappy,” she mutters. "I had no money. I had no home. I was working day in and out. I wanted to go back home."

Just in time, a savior in disguise comes her way. It was an ideal rendezvous. A love at first sight, almost a-fairy-tale-kind, she narrates. And as instantly as she glowed, her face turns pale and gloomy. She stops half way through, and bluntly says, “I can’t do this any more.”

After a brief pause, she resumes: “I was working in a restaurant at that time and he used to come there often. That’s how we met. That’s where it happened.”

A year after she moved in with him. Married happily ever after. A few months earlier, she had her first baby girl. “Today I am not baby sitting anyone’s but my own baby,” she breaks into a fit of laughter. “Better know that.”

But there are still tensions back home. Nobody approves of her marrying a white man. “My relatives and friends always ask me, ‘did you think Bhutanese men were exhausted?' But it was my fate that brought me here. It was my fate that married me to a white man,” She tries to reaffirm herself.

Only she knows how much it meant to be loved and taken care of in a strange world. Her parents, she says, is disappointed because now she is not coming back home. The irony is, they wanted her to go away then. To earn the hard buck. Now they want her back, and the tragedy is she can’t.

“This is my home. Bhutan is a great country, but not for me.”

Worn out diary of time

Some moments are just too beautiful to forget. Or let it wane with time. That's why we preserve the small, little moments of life, by scribbling it in our diaries, by posting blogs in the internet these days, by freezing the ethereal time in photographs, tapes and so on.

Here's a few words from the diary I long wrote in time. That time, I was just a young teenage boy. I barely remember what made think so. Here is the draft, that was almost on illegible.

"Everyone is just so happy, carefree and happy-go-lucky. I look around and see boys and girls, my age, many younger to me, walking all over the place, in their blue school uniforms, dirty shoes, rambling, playing, in the hot summer sun. I sit under the shed of a tree staring at these boys and girls, like a scarecrow, unblinkingly. There is so much to be happy about.

I know I did not bring my lunch today because my mom did not cook what I wanted to have. And I did not have any money to go to a shop and eat something. So here I sit and watch boys and girls play. But it is not the hunger that is making me feel awful. It is the anger I showed to my mom that is making me feel bitter. I will surely go home and say sorry to mom in the evening."

As I read, and re-read through the page from this old diary of mine, I found myself travelling back in time. It was a journey to the world we long lived and left behind as we grew up. Memories from those times are hard to remember unless some incidents of paramount importance have been fossilized in our minds. Perpetually. Like the terrible feeling of the first day in school, like the the guilty feeling of having forgotten to do the homework, or the nimble experience of never confessed to the person you had loved. I can barely remember any.

As i closed the wornout diary, I cherished, I had never said sorry to my mom that day.

To make up for it or rather overcome by the sensation, I called my mom yesterday evening and told about the particular incident. She did not remember the event but carried away by nostalgia, she went telling me how angry I was as a kid. I said sorry.

And just listen: She asked me, "are you drunk?"

Well, I think I was. Memories are sometimes intoxicating!

I shunned God, he embraced me

I have always tried to be, adamantly, a non-religious person. Look at my profiles, it shows there.

Perhaps, I am not cut out for religion. I feel it somehow suffocates me. It restricts my personal choice. All those lists of dos and don'ts that would run into pages make me feel, I have little choice but to live them up.

Often, I have felt that people turn to religion because they fear too much of the unknown, of death, of the life after. There seems to be a selfish motive in being religious. It is for salvation. had there been no such concept, perhaps, it would be difficult to come by one holy man.

And seflisheness and religion are sure antagonistic. They are worlds apart. I feel the same about Death. It is scary. But we all know, there is no running away. I am not an atheist. Because often I have felt that wind of spiritualism in me. I feel there is goodness in everything. There is Go (o)d in all small and big things. There is a buddha everywhere. It is within me, yet i don't think I can handle it.

Sometimes, I just feel I am only pretending to be 'too good'. I feel I am acting-a hypocrat. There is no place for goodness in actuality. It has to fit in well with cricumstances, as it come by. Let me narrate a short incident, that was almost close to enlightenment.

One hot afternoon, feeling thirsty to death, I stopped by the fruit shop to have a gulp of apple shake. As I stood sipping the juice, that ran down my throat till the stomach, leaving a chill feeling, a little child beggar ran toward me, hung from my shoulder and started nagging. he begged and bowed. he would not speak, but gesture that he is hungry.

Turned off, I did not budge. I pulled up my arm from his frail grip and gave him a stern glance of ignominy. And I walked away. That is how they are treated here. Nobody cares about them. Just then, I had joined the 'nobody' band.

They are the chidlren of the lesser gods. They sleep under the flyover which they call a home. They look dirty, they wear rags. But children they are. Hungry and desolated, desperate and disowned.

Where is goodness? Where is God? Forget about god, where is humanity? Sometimes, as somebody rightly said, God is a sadist, holds true. As I walked home, I kept on contemplating why I did not bother to give the child a coin. That was all he had asked for.

Next time on my way to college, another child beggar came asking for a penny. That time, without a moment of thought, I gave him one. I can't be a Rhinocerous, following its herd in madness.

I smiled my way to the college. There he was, right within me. GOD!