The Legendary Dzongda Tshering Wangda of Haa

For us, the people of Haa, Dasho Tshering Wangda will always be fondly remembered as the Dzongda who transformed our lives with his extraordinary compassion and dedication.

As a child, I didn’t fully understand the depth of his leadership, but I witnessed glimpses of it. I remember Sunday markets vividly, where my mother would meticulously prepare cheese balls, ensuring they were clean and perfectly wrapped in leaves. “Dzongda Tshering Wangda might come,” she’d say with a mix of pride and respect. And he would—walking among the farmers, inspecting their produce with care, encouraging them, and ensuring they felt valued. He didn’t just stop there. If any vegetables were left unsold, he would load them into his pickup truck and drive 80 kilometers to Chunzom to find buyers, ensuring nothing went to waste.

In a few short years, Dasho transformed Haa. His leadership brought tangible changes to our valley, and in the era where Dashos were feared, he was loved. His connection to us remained strong long after he left.

Some years ago, when my mother visited Gelephu on a farmers' tour, Dasho heard about their visit. Without hesitation, he invited the group to his farm and welcomed them with open arms, calling them, “My Haaps.” It wasn’t just a gesture—it was proof of the bond he nurtured with us.

Listening to stories of him over the years, I realized that Dzongda Tshering Wangda wasn’t just a leader; he was a guardian, a friend, and an unwavering source of inspiration. His legacy is not only the changes he brought to Haa but the countless lives he touched with his kindness, generosity, and love for his people.

Dear Dasho, your absence leaves a void that words cannot fill, but your legacy will live on in our hearts and stories. You were not just a Dzongda; you were a family member to us, and we shall forever cherish your memory.

Dasho, you will be dearly missed.

Restoring a 1984 Photograph

This black and white photograph from my Ama (mother's sister) Lhaden and Asha KB Gurung's marriage in 1984 is the oldest known picture of myself and even my mother's. It was taken in Haa Imtart officer mess where the ceremony was hosted. I was only one year old. Since my father was not in the picture, I am assuming he may have passed away already. They say he died in a truck (that was operated as public transport) accident when I was a baby. 

Standing L-R: Angay Tashi Dem, Jojo Dorji, Angay Lamkey, Asha KB Gurung, Ama Lhaden
Front row: Ashim Karma Lhaden, Mother Gaki holding the cute me. 
The Scanned copy of the original photo from 1984

I remember seeing this photograph before, but I didn't realized how important a piece of memory it was for me. It was in better condition then. I could have taken care. By the time I saw it last time in my sister's possession, it was already in bad shape. I am so grateful that she took care of it, becuase this time when I saw it, I felt so nostalgic. It was a completely new feeling. I think that comes with age.

Just when I was wondering what to do with the old picture, something random made a perfect sense. I was invited to give an inspirational talk at ScanCafe in Thimphu Tech Park last month. I made new friends there and discovered what hundreds of young Bhutanese are doing in that massive office. Jagat and Neten showed me samples of their works. As of today they have scanned 193.5 million images by hand. Yes, they are photo scanning, editing, restoring service company with HQ in the US. Their client base is outside Bhutan for now where the value of old pictures and videos are already felt. When we Bhutanese come of age, they are already here. 

Isn't this amazing that two random events happened almost at the same time, one is only making sense becuse the other happened a little ahead of it? I called up Jagat and told my old picture story. I didn't even have to explain what I wanted him to do with it, because this was a part of his job. 

Restored by ScanCafe

This is what he has done with my picture. He said he could only do so much because my photo was tiny, only a little bigger than playing card. Yet he has restored the damages and enhanced the resolutions almost ten times. 

Colourized Picture 

He added live to the 1984 still picture by adding colour to it. I am going to print copies of it and gift to my grandmother, mother, Asha and Ama. But I am wondering if Asha KB really wore a faded gho on his marriage. I think that must have been a glitch. Anyway, that will be a good topic to talk on when I go to them with the printed picture. 

Thank you, Jagat!

I Lied in 1988

I have only a few fragmented memories from my early childhood. It’s said that you remember those moments for certain reasons, buried deep within our subconscious mind. One such memory is of my friend Pempu. He was the first best friend I had in my life. We went to Gyensa Pry School together in 1988. I was 5 and he must have been a few years older. 

My First Best Friend Pempu. I owe him an apology. 

A senior from our village, Achu Rinzi, locked us inside an abandoned BHU during our exams and we had to repeat PP together. From the next year, we refused to be kidnapped during our exams and I did well in exams year after year but Pumpu repeated PP several times and realised school was not for him. We went on to help his father who was a rich nopoen (Yak header of Dasho Lampon). That’s how our journey parted.

During my Young Professional Leadership Program (YPLP) at RIGSS, Dr. Adrian Chan gave us a seemingly simple exercise to draw a Personal Event Timeline. It was to dig deep into our memories and record those events that had some sort of lasting impact. He believed that an unexamined life is not worth living. 

In deep silence we were to travel back in time and note down those impactful events from our life: 

1. What was it? When did it happen? 
2. Why was it impactful then?
3. What have you learnt from it...?

Wow, it was intense. I never thought it would be so emotional to evaluate something that has become a part of the past a long time ago. There were some seven events that made me slow down and take notes on my swift walk down the memory lane. I hope to blog about them all gradually. 

Pempu During 2017 Yangto Bongko

The very first memory was of Pempu. I saw myself waiting for Pempu to come out and play with me after we returned from school. My mother was not home so I was still in my school uniform. He did not come out. I made our usual code sounds but he showed no sign of coming out. 

I was lonely and upset, and thinking of ways to take revenge on him. I still don’t know why I didn’t just go in and play with him in his house. The next moment I saw myself climbing on the stonewall of his kitchen garden to get his attention. That was when I stepped on a loose rock and the stonewall came crumbling down with me. My big toenail was gone and it was bleeding badly. I cried as loudly as anyone could hear but no one heard me. I limped my way home and fell asleep at foot of the ladder. 

“Lama kheno, look what’s happen to my son.” My mother's loud cry woke me up and I began to cry again. She asked what happen and before I knew I had said, “Pempu did this to me.”

My exhausted mother, who has just returned from the field carried me on her back and stormed towards Pempu’s house. 

“Chimi Gyamuuuu..... Kaka Tsheriiiiii... come out and see what your son has done to my child.” My mother screamed from outside Pempu’s house. The whole village would have heard it. 

The whole of Pempu’s family looked out of their window, shocked. “Pempu didn’t even go out after he reached home.” Aum Chimi, his mother, shouted back as a matter of fact but my mother was so furious and went on cursing them. They defended Pempu for sometime and after a while, they were convinced that he must have sneaked out without their knowledge. I could see him being dragged away from the window by his father, who is known for his bad temper. Then I heard my revenge, some thud sounds and his deep bear-like cry. 

I could almost see the look of evil on my face as I recollect that event. I was five. How did I even do it! We must have made it up the next day despite our parents warning us not to be friends anymore. And over the years I thought the event had faded out but during the exercise, in deep silence, the event played in front of my eyes like it happened yesterday, and more dramatically I could see myself in the third person. 

That’s when I realised that guilt from 1988 has lived with me for all these years, because otherwise why would I remember it so vividly when I can’t remember any other thing from the ’80s. I think, perhaps that event must have shaped me into an honest person that I am now- considering the burden of guilt I had to carry to this day. 

And yes, this has helped me become a smart teacher and parent who adores children for their cuteness and innocence but won’t rule out their capability to lie and manipulate the truth.  

I owe Pempu an apology but I think he won’t even remember, it’s me with whom I have to make peace.

Let’s Not Make Hontey a Funeral Food

Hontey is a food that needs no introduction. People would know more about hontey than they know about Haa, the origin of the food. It’s possibly one of the very few things Haa is known for and proud of, and we leave no opportunity to brag about it.

Assisting my mother in making hontey 

Though it’s just a buckwheat dumpling with shredded turnip and turnip leaf in it to talk about, the long list of spices that go into it is mind boggling. It’s for this reason that honey has remained an exotic food until recently. Back in our childhood, we had to wait for a year to feast on hontey because not everyone could afford to get all the ingredients just like that. We collect and store ingredients throughout the year and make that one event big during the Lomba.

Now, with prosperity of the country we could afford the ingredients any day and they are available in the market, so whether good or bad, hontey is not an annual delicacy anymore. My mother prepares it every time her children come home.

But, no matter how easy it becomes to prepare hontey, one thing about it doesn’t change and should not change; it’s a food of celebration. We have always associated hontey with lomba, the grandest celebration in Haa. Lomba is our new year celebration, annual family gathering, it’s our Thrulbub, it’s our annual rimdro and funnily our collective birthday celebration, and the central piece of the event is the hontey.

However, in the last few years, I have seen hontey in the wrong place at the wrong, yes at the funerals. How did the celebration food suddenly appear at the funeral? To cut the long story short, it’s a fashion gone wrong. Apparently, some influential people served it at one funeral and the story spread among the Haaps. Then it became a social pressure for the next bereaved family to match up to last funeral- apparently we compete even in conducting funeral, from size of the buffet to the number of cars in the convoy.

It won’t be wrong to assume that some people in Thimphu tasted the first hontey at the cremation ground, and also that for some people cremation ground was the only place they have seen hontey thus far. For these people, hontey is increasingly becoming a funeral food, unless we make an effort to invite them over during lomba and reorient them otherwise.

It’s clearly an urban trend as long as it remain in Thimphu but the influence has swept across Haa now. Every time there is a death in Haa, a good number of people are gathered to make hontey on top of hundred other things to do. It’s become an uncomfortable obligation on the families and their good neighbours. It’s almost becoming a scary tradition that's weighing heavy on families that are not so well to do. And good neighbours are getting sick of making what they once loved doing during lomba.

Actually, if we cared to notice the obvious, it's so explicit in our practised of taking a bangchung of hontey to the mourning homes during lomba. When a death happens in a family, they don’t make hontey during the lomba as a sign of mourning. Making hontey means celebration, which the family won’t do as a mark of respect for the departed soul. They are rather offered hontey by neighbours, like condolences. How did we fail to understand this?

It’s not too late to turn around the trend. We are the first generation of Haap that added hontey on funeral menu. One more generation and it will become an irreversible culture. Let us undo our mistake. Let’s not celebrate death.

Let’s keep hontey for celebrations.

Memories of Playing Degor

The first game I was introduced to as a child growing in dusty playground of Yangthang was degor. The game needed just a pair of disc-shaped stones and a bunch of friends. In 90s it was a luxury to play any other game that required any equipment. It took a strong string to make a working bow and a sharp metal to make a arrowhead, both of which were hard in find in the village those days. Therefore, degor remain the most popular pastime.

Now when go home I don’t see anyone playing degor. In fact the huge craters we created on either end of the degor range over many years have disappeared, without leaving any trace of so much memories. Now the elders have shifted to fancy modern archery and young ones are on mobile phone games. Degor has become a game from stone age for them.

However, this seemingly outdated team game actually may be the ancestor of all the other indigenous games that emerged over the years, be it khuru or archery. With the history of centuries of monastic influence and dominance, the game that monks predominantly played could be traced back as the first of its kind, if proper research could be carried out. Degor was the only form of entertainment that wasn’t forbidden in the monastic institution in the past. Monks could be seen playing it outside their Dzong or dratshangs. We have heard of incidences of monks getting punished or even expelled for engaging in game of archery, which is forbidden for monks. This prohibition, though not vividly written anywhere could be because of the contradiction between the nature of the game and the basic Buddhist conducts. Archery, unlike degor, is a lavish game that involves possession of bow and arrows, colorful flags and women dancers. Degor on the other hand is just a pair of rocks, which is why monks were confined to playing just degor.
The pair of rocks is but not as ordinary as one would assume, I remember scouting by the riverside for hours looking for the best pair of degors, while we could see the elders crafting out their pair from a large chunk of rock and carefully chipping it over hours at end. Each piece was so unique that we could identify the owner.

After the game, everyone left their degors in the playground, while some would find a safer place to hide theirs. No one would touch someone else’s degor, though some close friends would switch at times.



The most exciting part in the game of degor is the drama and suspense of scoring. The degor that has land on the target can be knocked off any moment by an opponent or at times accidentally by a team mate. Therefore, we would keep those sharpshooters with bigger degor toward the end to do that job. Similarly, a degor that’s nowhere close to the target can be pushed in onto the target, often accidentally. So the drama is intense until the last of degor has landed. 

Then the suspense of scoring begins. Because the target that’s a wooden peg nailed into the ground and is not visible, we can’t say whose has scored when there are more than one degor around the target. We have to hold on to our celebration until each degor is scrutinized by the two team leaders. We use indigenous measurement system of tho (Stretch between the tip of thumb to the tip of middle finger) and sow (breadth of a finger) to negotiate scores. Any degor within a tho range will score a point unless countered by an opponent’s degor that’s closer. There would be another round for drama while negotiating point, especially if we have someone who could cheat smartly by kicking away opponents’ degor or kicking in a teammates’ degor in a blink of an eye.

The excitement, drama, and all the noises have faded away with time, the playground looks desolate with haunting silence. We don’t even see monks playing degor anymore. The glamour of modern games have outshined the simple game of two stones.

The Sound of Slingshot

It wasn’t until I visited 2017 Haa Summer Festival that I knew there was a sound of slingshot that played a significant role. My understanding of slingshot was limited to its stone throwing function. Even the art of weaving one was new to me; I thought it was just plain leather going by the type of slingshot we used to play during our childhood.

Attending my hometown festival for the first time I was exploring the stalls for hoentay, tongba and rainbow trout delicacies, and there was no way a piece of rope woven from yak hair could draw my attention. But somehow while passing by a tent I couldn’t help notice the slingshot hanging among yak tail, bells and other yak products.

 

A typical slingshot from Haa (Of course they declared it wasn't done well)

I took it in my hands and started playing with it without a stone. It wasn’t long before a yak herder came and began naming the parts of it to me; what seemed like a piece of rope has four parts to it with names. The man told me that it wasn’t done well. There were flaws in two areas of slingshot we were looking at. I was intrigued. He was particularly not happy that the tip was made from nylon material and not yak hair. He said it wouldn’t sound good.

Sound good? What has slingshot got to do with sound? Isn’t it a weapon to propel stone across the distance? That’s the beginning of my understanding of the sound of the slingshot.

The man distanced himself from me into the open space, made a loop on one end to hold on to and sent it swinging over his head and after certain round made a sudden twist. Out of nowhere, an explosive sound was produced, completely unexpected from a piece of rope. It was physics of breaking the sound barrier.

The man did it several times, each one louder than the previous. The sound drew a lot of attention and among the people drawn by the sound were few hardcore yak herders. Looking at the reaction the man was enjoying the fellow yak herders started saying, “That’s nothing. Come on let me show you.” 

The next man to try!

 Soon, everyone rushed to take his turn. It became a battle. Each produced a different sound and it was hard to judge but nonetheless, I gave verdicts, which infuriated the battle further. Among them was an 11-year-old boy named Kinley Wangdi who pushed his grandfather into the competition, insisting that the old man was the best.

That's me failing big time and hurting my shoulder 

The old man came forth with so much pride but the sound didn’t come so well to uphold the reputation his grandson gave him. Clearly frustrated, he inspected the slingshot and declared that it was not a good one. His little supporter jumped in to inspect and much to my surprise even he declared that it wasn’t the real one. He said his grandfather could make the real ones. Everyone agreed.

The discussion then moved on to the components of a real slingshot and I was awestruck by the details of weaving a slingshot. What really made me raise my brows was when they pointed at the pattern on a section of slingshot and said that it could ward off evil forces and that the injuries from such sling would never heal. The passion with which the guys said it warranted no denying. Believe it or not, they mean it with their lives.

My curiosity and their passion for the subject matched perfectly. I was not done yet. I asked, what was the purpose of the sound they produced with the slingshot. They explained that it was the sound that could make the bravest of yak shit in their fur. When the animals go haywire the herder would make that explosive sound once and even the naughtiest bull would fall in line like a good boy. It’s like the command of a military general. 

The sound of the blank slingshot frightening the yaks can be associated directly with Pavlov’s Dog experiment on classical conditioning. Most yaks have experienced the horrific pain of getting hit by a stone shot from a slingshot, and they remember that pain and the sound together. The next time even a blank shot could achieve the same result without actually having to hurt their beloved animals.

Dasho Dzongda of Haa, Kinzang Dorji joined the passionate group and listen to their stories with utmost keenness, it was then that I proposed Dasho randomly about coming up with a competition among the yak herders to see who can produce the deadliest sound. The idea went very well with the crowd and even with Dasho. He agreed that it could be a special component of the Haa Summer Festival.

Dasho Dzongda studying the pattern of a slingshot

The men proposed that each man bring their own slingshot and that there be competition to see the best slingshot. I could hear them talking about working on their own slingshot right way. 12-year-old Kinley Wangdi was definite that none could beat his grandfather. He validated his grandfather’s worth by bringing along a beautiful piece the very next day just to show to me.

Kinley Wangdi with his Grandfather's Slingshot

I went straight to my Japanese friend Akane Matsuo and inquired about the possibility of her bringing in a sound measuring device from Japan the next time she went home. Because I realized that we couldn’t possibly trust human ear to pass judgment on that sort of sound. She Googled it right away and agreed to bring one. After all, it was in her best interest to do any little thing for her second home- Haa. It was her project in RSPN to develop community-based sustainable tourism in Haa, and the slingshot that sparked all the interest was actually hung in her team’s stall that fateful day.

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Toilet for my Mother

My life is all about toilets now. It used to be about blogging once but it took me too far into being the change I was seeking that I could never really come back to full time blogging. If blogging and toilet were two friends I had, 'blogging' would be happy to know that I left him for 'toilet', which is what he wanted. On the contrary, 'toilet' is a jealous guy, he won't let me go back to blogging. He wants all my time and attention for himself.

Having been full time with toilet for more than two years; cleaning, managing, designing, building, lobbying, auditing, campaigning... leaving no shit unturned for the sake of the toilet, one day when Health Minister, Lyonpo Tandin offered Bhutan Toilet Org. to take up a part of project Health Ministry is doing with rural sanitation, I remembered my own village. It's like that carpenter not having a good home. Classic.

Of course, I personally laboured the construction of a modern toilet at home when I was in college and back then mine was among a very few homes in the village with flush toilet attached to the body of the house. But when I look at it now, with my mother aged beyond sixty and her son having become the toilet man, I wonder why I had built it on the ground floor.

Because when we venture into rural toilet project I want people to literally embrace toilet; bring it closer to them and not make it a shabby little room on the ground floor or worse take it far off beyond the kitchen garden. A toilet should be, something I always urge, so close to you that it's the easiest option so that even the oldest member of the family can use it anytime. Remember we too are going to be old someday. At the end, a toilet that is closer will always receive better attention and therefore remain cleaner.

But first I must have it myself in my own village home before I can even think of talking about it. It's about credibility and self-confidence; for people to have trust in my work, and more importantly for me to have trust in myself to take the leap without an ounce of guilt. After all these years I don't want to be another someone who preaches from a book for the sake of a project.

Therefore, this summer break all my siblings came together to gift our mother a toilet that is attached to the first-floor of the house and has all the modern features. Our earlier experience with the stone wall wasn't good; it gave us bulky and ugly walls, therefore, we decided to do the new toilet with bricks. My youngest brother, Tenzin Choda went ahead and started producing concrete bricks. By the time we reached he has produced a staggering 700 pieces. It was enough more than enough for a toilet, and two kitchen sinks.

Toilet for my mother

Our neighbours came around to watch us work and were impressed by the ease of working with bricks and beautiful finish we could achieve with it. I hope they will emulate our way of building a toilet and come up with sexy toilets for themselves.

Three brothers with helping hand from two village friends complete the toilet in five days along side two kitchen sink. Labour charge in my village is high but the two helpers worked over time to deserve the wage, probably motivated by our dedication. One motivation for them was to learn plumbing skill from me. Yes!

There were many new skills I acquired in Bhutan Toilet Org. and one among them is plumbing. The two guys had done many toilet works but they said they could never perfectly connect the sewer lines after putting the rubber washers. They would then seal the joints with a load of concrete plaster. Bad idea. It would leak very soon. I showed them the hack of lubricating the washer with soap to get the perfect joint and they were baffled.

Then, I took over the water connection using CPVC pipes, something I love doing. I gave water connection to the new toilet, the old toilet, kitchen on both floors with a system to control the water pressure (elsewhere it's about low pressure but in my village, the water pressure could blow up a brass bibcock.) When we released the water and it came splashing down into the kitchen sink I could see the joy on my mother's face. My plumbing was perfect; not a leak to be found.

The functional Interior. Final touches waiting for another holiday

The vacation was over from my brother Tenzin and I had to get back to the office but there was one last thing to do, to give our toilet a door. It was going to take one day more, so my brother Samtey stayed back to complete it. But as the Chablop it was my privilege to inaugurate the toilet and I did the honour without the door when no one was around.

I could see the pride in my mother's eyes when she showed our neighbours around the new toilet and I could hear remarks like, 'Pa, it's like a tourist hotel!' and my mother would modestly say, 'It's not quite done yet. They are going to put tiles and geyser later.'

God, it took me half my life to give this practical joy to my mother but now I am at peace. Now I am ready to work with Ministry of Health on the rural sanitation project, where I will use my own example to drive the change.

Sanja Dema's Husband

The context of this post is the communal joke that was widely circulated on the badly abused social media platform WeChat. Yes WeChat has been already used as the Launchpad for three worst things to happen in Bhutanese social media; leaking private movie clips, spreading hoax, and sharing communal joke. All resulted in social disharmony that is very new to Bhutan.

Well, the joke was a voice recording of two men allegedly from Haa talking about a woman named Sanja Dem who married a guy from eastern Bhutan. Their conversation roughly translates to,

“Sanja Dem is married!”

“Really, who is the man?”

“He is a Sharchop.”

“O’ then he will steal nyah.”

I am from Haa and I know the men whose voice were recorded weren’t from Haa, as is evident from the fake accent they used. They were making fun of our language. Worse still, they impersonated us to insult Sharchops by calling them thieves. With all my sense of humor I am trying to laugh at the joke but somehow the intention in this joke seems seriously wrong.

I heard the joke before and back then Sanja Dem’s husband wasn’t a sharchop, he was a gatey (ex-monk) but the character in the joke was suddenly changed to a shashop to supposedly do maximum damage. This seemingly dry joke could lead to social disharmony and therefore such communal jokes of disastrous potential should be stopped right away.

We must appreciate our unity as harmonious little society. Many countries suffered because of communal division leading to mistrust among people, igniting riots and starting civil wars. We need not learn the lesson in a hard way; history is a good teacher. We should not take our harmony for granted just because we didn't earn it ourselves. It's the greatest gift of the Wangchuck dynasty that we must honour.

“Such clips are communal in nature and much more severe than the circulation of pornographic materials, We can book them under the National Security Act as its highly objectionable.” - Police Chief, Brigadier Kipchu Namgyal, in Kuensel 

My Favourite Mushroom

I couldn't gather the english name of my favourite mushroom despite trying two very authentic mushroom websites. In Haa we call it Chenpo Shamo, literally translating to Liver Mushroom. The local name apparently is derived from the size, color and taste because the mushroom looks and taste like one. However it has sharp odour, which many people won't find pleasant. Perhaps that's why it's not very popular though it's said to have high medicinal values. 

If you are an amateur mushroom picker you wouldn't spare a second glance at it because it's huge, ugly and stinky but if I saw it I would dance three time in extreme joy. 

Chenpo Shamo from Home

My love for this mushroom is inherited from my mother among many. When I go home in summers her grandest way of welcoming me is by keeping stock of this mushroom. Nice neighbours would bring along some when they get it knowing how much we love it. 

This summer my mother wasn't very lucky with this mushroom but she has managed to barter two pieces with the neighbour and sent it to me. It was packed in a carton box and as I opened it the scent filled my room. It thrilled me. It was kind of scent that evoked so many memories from village, like certain music does. Recently my cousin visited me from village and even she brought me few pieces. I have sliced it and sun dried it for future consumption. Because this mushroom comes back alive when soaked in water. 

There are various recipes you can try with this mushroom but nothing beats ezay. 
Roast the mushroom lightly, 
Slice it into thin pieces, 
Add chilli powder and finish it with few pinches of thingay. 

If that bitterish liverly taste don't knock you down, tell me! 

Chenpo Shamo Ezay

History of Terton Sherab Mebar We Missed in School

My mother told me tales about a certain Pangpi Lam, who went to Nub Tshonapatra, a lake west of Haa, to fetch golden pillars growing on the lake's bottom. He took a group of carpenters who were to fell the golden pillars when he vanished the water from the lake. The carpenters were instructed to take the gold splinters from the one-foot margin they were given for chopping.

Nub Tshonapatra (Tsho Na Pa Tra) Picture: Dechen Pema

But the carpenters grew greedy as they saw chunks of gold flying all over on the impact of their axes. They went beyond the margin. Lam signalled the relentless carpenters to maintain the margin given because he had held up the lake water in his mouth and could not speak. Lam had to shout at them to stop when the workers went way too much, but then the lake busted out of his mouth and killed all workers. The raging water then chased Lam, who now lost his meditative concentration.

Lam fled with some treasures he had extracted from the lake, which he threw one by one to distract his pursuer. Each time he dropped an object, a portion of water settled over it and formed a small lake. The lakes were called Nga Tsho (Drum Lake), Dung Tsho (Trumpet Tsho) and so on, named after the treasures they were concealing. When the Lam finally reached his monastery, the water retreated, and by then, Lam had only a cymbal with him.

Nub Tshonapata and all the other lakes

I thought it was another folktale until I learned the presence of the single cymbal in Paro Dzong. It can be seen and heard during the first day of Paro Tshechu. That made me interested in the story of Pangpi Lam.

The single Cymbal in Paro Dzong believed to be from Nub Tshonapata

Then I learned that there is a place called Pangpisa where the legendary lam lived, wherein the name Pangpi Lam came. His real name was Terton Sherab Mebar. I was told his body was preserved to this day. It even connected to the famous Pangpi Reip, the medicinal ball reputed to cure any form of internal infection, including cancer. The Reip was said to be rolled out from the dust gathered from terton’s remains.

All these fragments of mythical and historical information finally formed proper shape and fitted together on 24.06.2015 when I visited the very place, which is now called Ugyen Guru Lhakhang, in Pangpisa. Thanks to my friend Sonam Ura for making a special arrangement for our team on the day they had all the treasures on display.

Despite the bad road, a huge crowd has come to receive blessings from supernatural objects. Our team patiently waited until late afternoon to take our turn. It was worth the wait because the crowd had disappeared and we were just about twenty of us at the end. We sat around the current Pangpi Lam, who had all the treasure displayed on his table.

The charming and witty orator began the history lesson, and for the first time, I realized that Terton Sherab Mebar lived way before Zhabdrung and even before Terton Pema Lingpa. He was believed to be born in 1267. As a passionate history student, what was very intriguing about him was the specifics we could draw right out of the three tiny pecha (religious text) written on palm leaves in his own handwriting. The two were said to have details of his treasures and one about his own life.

As much as I love to share about the Terton, I am scared I might dilute the great piece of history. Therefore I will dwell on certain aspects of his life and legend and leave the rest to serious historians like Dr Karma Phuntsho to do justice.

Terton Sherab Mebar is believed to have approached Bhutan through the Jomolhari, where he was said to have discovered his first treasure on his way from Tibet. He continued to Bumthang through Baylangdra in Wangdue. Once in Bumthang, according to his prophecy, he had to look for a girl called Pema Chuki of a certain age to accompany him in discovering certain treasures, but that proclamation did not go well with the locals. It instead triggered suspicion, and the then ruler in Bumthang, who too had his eye on the same girl, didn't want to believe in such a prophecy. 

He demanded Terton to prove himself to the people of Bumthang by discovering treasure from a nearby lake, the current Mebar Tsho. Terton resisted, saying that the time hadn’t come for the Mebar Tsho treasures to be revealed. He told them that three generations later, his own reincarnation, which we now know was Terton Pema Lingpa, would come to discover treasures from the lake. This only added more suspicion, and he came under tremendous pressure to prove himself by going to the Mebar Tsho with a burning lamp in his hand. He came out with two chests of treasures that he returned to the lake immediately to be rediscovered generations later by the rightful Terton, Pema Lingpa.

He seemed to have failed to win the goodwill of the people or the ruler of Bumthang because he could neither marry Pema Chuki and nor discover the treasure he was destined to do in the company of the prophesied khandro. This was the beginning of many events that would go wrong in his life and ultimately cost him his life.

The subsequent failure happened in Pasakha, where he was prophesied to discover a cave of gold, silver and salt. He meditated near the area and caused a landslide that opened the cave door to endless resources, but it's said that he met three people carrying empty baskets on his way to the cave, which was considered very ominous. He knew something was not right. By the time he reached the cave, everything had turned into rock and sand. 

He finally reached Pangpisa through Sombaykha and Jabana, the ultimate destination to which he was directed. It was here that he had to wait till the age of 25 to head to Nub Tshonaparta to reveal the world of treasure wealth that could sustain our country throughout times to come. It was prophesied that he would visit the lake seven times in his lifetime. But as restless as he was, and because of his reputation and the growing suspicion even in Pangpisa, he had to leave for Nub Tshonapatra earlier than prophesized to earn his respect back. That’s when the story my mother told me happened. It was a big failure. Thirty-two carpenters and workers were reported to have been killed that day.

In addition to what my mother told me, some folklore has it that Ap Chundu, the local deity of Haa, was said to have negotiated between the Lam and the raging lake when he was chased by the lake. An agreement was drawn stating that Pangpi Lam and his descendants would never cross Tego La towards Nub Tshonapata. This term of the contract is honoured by the people of Pangbisa to this day.

It's believed that Ap Chundu had a role in the actual prophesy to accompany the Terton to Nub Tshonapata in extracting the golden pillar when the time was right but Sherub Mebar had taken local carpenters ahead of the destined time to put an abrupt end to the grand prophecy.

Terton, who was actually prophesied to live for ages and discover many more treasures died an untimely death in his 30s in Baylangdra, Wangdue.

The handwritten record left by Terton himself and the numerous treasures he left behind support all the tales and events in more incredible details and astounding preciseness.

In my next post, I will share about the thrilling journey of Terton’s Kudung (body) from Baylangdra to Pangpisa and to Paro Dzong within the span of 700 years. Only the skull of Terton's Kudung survived today, and it’s back in Pangpisa, which was on display on the day I visited.