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.

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.

My Adopted Sister Nima Chunda

My childhood has been interesting. Everyone who knew me as a boy has unforgettable stories to share. From the outside, they must have found it adventurous. But I have been trying to forget everything because there weren’t many beautiful moments I could cherish. I don’t want to be hateful. I want to be different.

My childhood was kind of a dirty street where only a few kind people had walked by and I mean the real kind ones whose kindnesses were compassionate and unconditional. Since I had only a few such people in my life I am going to begin writing about them, one by one.

1997, Paro: I was in junior high school fighting for attention. I would be in trouble every other day. I wasn’t scared of any form of punishment. It seemed like I enjoyed being punished. I was avoided like an infected dog. As a dirty village troublemaker, it was easy for people to hate me.

1996, Paro

Life would have been different if I was cute. It could have been forgivable if I was rich, or at least talented. I was miserable in studies, sports, music and everything that could have made life easy in junior school. I was rather into fighting most of the time. I would be beaten often, and if I survived I would have it from the teachers.

But there was one girl who looked at me differently. She was quiet and gentle. She was perhaps a little older than me or a little more matured. She'd told people that I was her adopted bother. I went numb when I heard that as if I had waited all my life to hear that. It was a culture in the '90s to adopt brothers and sisters but like I said you had to be special to be chosen. People were shocked that a gentle girl had accepted the most mischievous boy in the school as her brother. I was equally shocked.

From that day I began to hide from her, and whenever I was going to do anything undesirable I would scan the whole place to make sure she wasn't around. Soon people knew about this spell that worked on me and started using her name as key to controlling me.

Perhaps she must be the first girl to whom I spoke softly; I called her Aue Nima. Her name was Nima Chunda. When she called me to seat with her and share her lunch, I would be the quietest boy with all the decency that I didn’t know I had. People passing by would stop to confirm if it was really me. 

That summer, I didn’t have money to go home and she had heard that. She took me to her family and gave me three best days of my childhood until she got enough money to buy me tickets home. I had good food, slept in a soft bed, visited her relatives and watched endless movies. She would take me to videocassette shops and make me choose movies. Imagine the joy of getting to watch movies of your choice in the ’90s.

She would often send me her lunchbox so that I could taste better home-cooked food. She would call me by the riverside during the weekends and help me do my laundry. She would send me gifts and goodies. I was new to all these acts of kindness; I only saw those happen to other boys in the hostel. She made me feel like anyone in the hostel; wanted and normal. I suddenly began to see the world differently.

To this day I wonder how a small girl of her age had such a compassionate heart to care for me, who didn’t even have a cute smile to return. She was the best thing to happen to me in my junior school.

My mother would often ask, “Where is your Aue Nima now, what’s she doing?” and the last time she asked me I told her, “Aue Nima has become a nurse. She is in Thimphu Hospital. We are in touch.” My wife and daughter heard Aue Nima's story from me more than once and we met several times.

Today, when I could help a random person somewhere I remember Aue Nima, because I know the DNA was passed down from my adopted sister. 

Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?

People are closing the chapter on the Suicide too soon, yet again, as expected. It's just a few of us who thought things will change forever, that the death of two young people hanging by one tree would awaken the country to the grave reality of suicide. Are you going to wait till someone hangs on the tree at your gate? Or will it take someone to hang on your bedroom fan to make it matter to you personally?

Suicide is a very fragile subject, which is differently understood by different people: Some think it's brave act to face one's death, while other say that someone who can't face life's problem is a coward. Some explain how it's an unchangeable fate, while others believe it's impetuous stunt to prove a point.

1957 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Albert Camus makes it sound so simple when he says, “Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?” Suicides are generally driven by simple problems that could be solved easily over a cup of coffee, if only we could hold on for that long, because it seems that for the victims there is no bigger problem at that point in time. That's why we need to discuss it, and make professional help easily accessible to people in problem. 

March 10, 1997: It was the reporting date for class VIII students in Paro Gaupay. Class VII students were announced to report after Paro Tshechu. I didn't receive my result sheet, which was to be delivered by post in January. However, nobody really bothered about my missing result because they knew I was the best. I had the reputation of being 'the boy who never failed' both at home and in the village. So they packed my bags and sent me on March 10.

My uncle was an army officer and he sent me in an Army DCM truck with several children from army camp. Those kids had received their results and their seat in class VIII were confirmed while I was to visit the headmaster and get my result first.

The driver uncle accompanied me to the headmaster's office, he looked confident because he heard from my uncle about how good I was. The headmaster knew me well because of the several visits I paid to his office the last year, and he was so pleased to hand over the result without even punishing me for not having submitted postal address like other kids. I have failed in three subjects. Headmaster told driver uncle to take me back home and send me after tshechu holidays, because that's when class VII students should report.

I turned numb with shame and guilt. I was scared. The army driver who heard so much about me from my uncle was thoroughly confused. He reloaded my bags into the DCM and asked me to join him in the front of the truck. I refused his offer and climbed on the back of the truck, where I was alone now because all the other children had passed and were staying back.

Then as we began our journey back to Dechencholing my fear began to escalate. I couldn't imagine facing the crowd at home. I feared my uncle even in normal times. That's when I decided to jump of the moving truck. I thought to myself- what would they do if I died? Would they forgive me? What if I got seriously injured? Would they forgive me? Hundreds of thoughts asking each other questions and making answers.

I still get cold feet when I think of that moment, that delicate moment when I was ready to jump. Then I sat down and calculated what would happen in the worse case scenario? How much will they scold me or beat me? By tomorrow morning won't everything be over? That decision I took that day, with half my body hanging from a moving truck was the best I took. I thank that 13 year old me for saving me.

We reached home at dinner time. The army driver knocked on the door, and upon calling he went in and gave a loud salute to my uncle, who was having dinner with houseful of family members - we usually have no less than 15 people seated at a meal.

"So you are back from Paro?" Asked my uncle,
"Yes Dasho" Army driver replied. I could hear the beat of my heart in my mouth.

"Did you reach my boy to his school?"

"No Dasho, I brought him back."

"Why?"
"He has failed, and Headmaster told him to come after Paro Tshechu."
All 15 people in the house laughed long and loud, and amidst their laughter I made my entry with a timid smile. They laughed more. And I laughed too. Someone went to pick my plate and I joined them. Nobody even scolded me.

The fear, shame and guilt were my own construction for which I nearly jumped of the truck. Over the funny dinner I thought what would have happened to this wonderful dinner if I had jumped.


After that year I never looked back. I rebuilt my "the boy who never failed" reputation at home and in village. Became the first boy from my village to qualify from class X, and from XII. Got degree, became a happy teacher and lived to write this post.

My Oldest Photograph

Last Sunday a cat has given birth to four kittens in my storeroom. Kezang wanted to feed the exhausted mother but my store is so cramped up that we could hardly get to the cat family. So with all the reluctance I had to invest my weekend in clearing the dusty room. I took out about a truck load of old stuffs until I reached the cats. One kitten was almost dead and I had to rescue it quickly but I needed the approval from the mother. O' She wasn't bad I could easily get the whole family into their new carton box home.

Thanks to this cat family that gave me the chance to dig into my storeroom. I couldn't believe how much priorities have changed in these few years alone. Opening the dusty carton boxes I discovered the things that were considered useless a few years ago are now very essential. There were also things we held on to fondly that are no more of any use. There were clothes and shoes damaged by rats and fungus. One box contained books once I bought with big dreams but over the years I didn't even remember they were there.

And among the old dusty stuff was one picture of mine that I had once considered as just another picture but when I saw it this time I realised that it's the oldest picture I have of myself with me. It was shot by a foreigner in 1997 and sent to me by airmail.

Me and My Friend Tashi Tobgay

It was story of those days when Bhutan had only a countable cameras and foreigners were fond of taking picture of funny things- I was one such thing. They would mail us a copy diligently. Many kids from our generation had one such photo. 

Look at the picture and you can already write a story about my childhood. If you think it was bad, perhaps you haven't known me before that. I didn't get any chance to be a good boy, I didn't see a reason to be one. I am only happy that I survived myself. 

I showed this picture to my friends and Jaggu in particular laughed endlessly. It's on his request I am blogging this picture. My daughter can amazingly identify me in the picture- "When Apa was achu". And just imagine what my wife would have said about this picture...

Teachers Day in Bhutan- The Day to Reflect

It might sound quite theoretical when I say Teachers Day is the day of reflection but I have realized that only on this day I get the right emotion to stop and ask myself if I am a good teacher. And I have worked on trying to carry the resolutions I made on Teachers Day to the rest of the days. Every year I am find myself smiling with lesser guilt, that I don't have to pretend to be a nice teacher on the day when students present me with gift, rather happily be the friendly teacher that my students have always enjoyed being with.
People are right about not having the high performers from schools and colleges in teaching profession, being an average intelligent student and below average performer I used to be worried but now when I look far back and remember the teachers that made impressions in my life I realize that teaching is not all about big brains, because I only remember the kind ones, the funny ones, the caring ones, the impartial ones, the truthful ones and the principled ones.
When we were young we would proudly talk about the teacher who wear different dresses on different days, teacher who could kick the football highest, teacher who could slap us to unconsciousness , teacher who could remember the whole dictionary, teacher who could remember every line in the textbook, teacher who could break 50 willow sticks on your butt... but these are not the teacher who make lasting impression on our lives.

Parents and Teachers on the Stage

I have suffered so much in the hands of brutal teachers and I suffered more because of where I came from and how I looked, but because that couldn't break me down it only made me the sensitive teacher I am today. I know when it hurts most and where it hurt worst, I know how it feels like to be treated this way and that way... I see hundreds of myself seeking love among the lucky many, I know how to make them feel nice about themselves because I also met some great teachers in life who made me feel good about myself.
So these are the types of reflective emotion I go through on such auspicious days and I don't leave this emotion here, it's another new beginning to cast away guilt and earn personal satisfaction on professional journey.  

2013 Teachers Day Cake in Bajothang

Today, Bajothang celebrated Teachers Day along with School Sports Day, making to fun for both teachers and Students. They had a cake and it seemed like a birthday party for all the teachers. The stage was set right in the middle of football ground, we have to walk there to receive gifts from students- I ran away before my name was called and I landed up missing the cake as well.

Gift!

On My Birthday- June 6

My birthday has never been a special day during my childhood, I never had a cake in my name, nobody would remember the date, and I would cry but things started getting brighter as I learned to expect less. Now my birthdays are special because I have mastered the theory of expecting nothing, and therefore if nothing happens then nothing happens, and whatever little things come my way becomes pleasant surprise.

Birthday Picture for the Record.

But life is strange, best happens when you least expect and I often wish if some of these happened to me when I was desperately wishing for them. Now I have a beautiful family who would remember my birthday for me and treat the day like a national holiday and I have friends all over who would send their best wishes as if they have waited whole year to do that. I don't know why they are so excited about letting me know that I am growing old lol.
This is my last year in twenties and I am getting a strange reluctance to agree, because this one year unlike other years will change the whole story about me- now I know why some items' cost has _99 as suffix, one Nu. makes a great difference when considered at critical point. However, with this birthday I have broken the record of my father who died at 28- I think I am going to live longer.
For all the wishes and kind words, early and belated, long and short- some as short as 'HBD', from near and far, thank you so much. Your words made me feel wanted and useful in this world, they gave me joy and pride, and they gave me good reasons to live longer and bigger. Thank you all so much.

Norbu Wrote About My Childhood

Norbu- My Victim!

Norbu Tshering is one of my junior high schoolmate, who forgave me and wrote about the change in me. I wasn't surprised when I read his blog post "Passu-The Metamorphosis", I was only thankful he showed mercy by just writing a little bit from my childhood. He is one among the many schoolmates who didn't enjoy their school life because of me, and I had been too brutal to understand that. 

He wrote "Believe me he was more than the average Denise the Menace; an outrageous wild energy ever ready to do anything, especially beat you up. He was neither a gang leader nor the school boss but within our own age group he was someone you didn't want to mess with unless you had the protection of a bigger boy." 

I was a wild village boy trying to survive among the decent urban children and in my quest for attention I landed up being a terror. My village folks have a big hand in creating the then me; I was made to fight every boy in the playground and they would cheer me. They declared me the champion fighter of Yangthang, whom even the boys from neighboring villages feared. Brutality of my primary school added more horns on my head and by the time I joined junior high school where I met Norbu, I was literally out of my own control. I would fight three fights a day minimum and get beaten up by big boys and teachers when I wasn't lucky. I went on fighting- fighting another battle within me to free myself from who I was. I felt guilty and sorry after each fight I won, I felt scared after every fight I lost, and every night I would say to myself, "From now on I will not fight anyone." 

It took hundreds of nights over the years to break free from my childhood instincts and find the man I am today. It takes a willing heart to change the design of the god. I was born wild but I didn't like that, so I sort to change and I have.

My apologies to Norbu and so many schoolmates in whose lives I came like storm, but for me you all came like pieces of puzzle I was trying to solve. Norbu and I are friends now. 

11.11.11- Remembering Young Jigme at 17

At 17 I was in high school trying to figure out why my mathematics teacher didn't like me, why the warden had to be so strict, why all the beautiful girls were scared of me, and what was I doing there in school. I had all the time to live my school life day by day. Little short of financial luxury but I had nothing to worry much about, it was a beautiful school and food was sufficient, hostel room was cozy, I only had to wake up in the morning and sleep at night- much of the waking hours went in sleeping and rest hardly mattered.
But at 17 young crown prince Jigme Singye Wangchuck not only lost his father, but also his king. Bhutan turned numb at the news but young Jigme had to wipe off his tears midway down the cheeks and answer to his country's calling. He had to leave his playground too soon. He was born a crown prince but was deprived of all boyhood fun, life didn't give him time to grow one day at a time.

At 17, I was only half worried about my exam, and damn excited about my winter vacation but at 17 young Jigme ascended the golden throne and gave hope to every Bhutanese. At 17 he became the Fourth King of Bhutan and brought back the warmth in Bhutanese hearts, which they feared they lost forever.
At 17, I was trying to make sense of many things in my history textbook. At 17, His Majesty the Fourth King made history by becoming the youngest monarch.

At 17, I finally knew a few tricks to survive in hostel thereby ensuring my happiness, but I was yet to understand what makes my teachers happy, and what it takes to keep my mother happy. But at 17, His Majesty the King Jigme Singye Wangchuk kept aside his broken heart and pronounced his dream of happiness for his country and the people, and ever since, every Bhutanese felt the impact of his dreams in our lives. The dream, which the rest of the world could comprehend only now.

At 17, what were you doing? At 17 what are our kids doing now? Remember at 17, His majesty ensured happiness for all of us till the end of time. The best way to celebrate the life of the Great IV is to leave behind our excuses and start giving our best!