An Birthday gift of an alien kind

Yes it was impeccable; every shade of it. I stood at the door giving a final scrutiny to my work, smiling at my own ingenuity and aptitude. It was an outcome of six hours sitting at the table that afternoon. Not every day I get to be proud of my own paintings, the hobby I hid from everyone all these years. The landscape with a flush of sanguine back ground appeared alive and magnificent. The water fall could almost be found sparkling with a splashing echo.
I picked up the paint brushes from the table and placed it in the bowl. The paint tubes were restored into the set of rectangular boxes. My mother asked me if I was ready to come down stairs to welcome uncle Samten and aunt Jambay. I yelled back I shall be there any moment and told her about the master piece of my own, joyously. It was to be a memento for my parents. I wanted it to be hung on the walls of the sitting room alongside the collections of my father.
I unhooked the guitar from the wall and began to strum on it, not considering if it was music or noise I produced was not good at it but I always liked the sound it produced. To me every sound from a musical instrument soothed my fatigued mind and sinews after an hours’ study or work.
Tonight my father wanted to celebrate my twentieth birthday, in twenty years, in a traditional way because I had refuted the cutting of cakes or blowing off of the candles the other day. It did not please me to emulate culture from beyond the borders. It was not only my birth day evening but also a farewell celebration before I left for Samtse to pursue my teacher training courses so far away from home for the first time.
In the altar room, seven monks have begun to read the scriptures of long life from a Buddhist canon. A feast was being prepared in the kitchen. The aroma of the foods filled the entire rooms. A few of our guests had arrived bringing with them a host of colourful gift boxes. I felt like a child. I however felt that I cannot refute their love and blessings that comes along with the gifts.
My mother called me again. I put the guitar on the hanger and left my room immediately to join the friends and relatives. I lingered around laughing, conversing and shaking hands.
About an hour later, I was engrossed in conversation with an old friend when father called me from the stairs. I negotiated my way through the milling crowd towards him. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘we have a surprise for you-come.’ I looked at him excitedly and followed him upstairs. Mother was waiting upstairs her face glowing with pride. When we reached my bedroom door he held me from my shoulder and said, ‘many, many happy returns of you days my son, Please go in..’ and he opened the door for me and left. I had no time to thank them even. I entered, anticipating a glazing gift box on my table. There was none. No boxes.
I peered into my gloomy room straining my eyes. And there she was on my bed, leaning against the bed post as if viewing the stars through the open window. I remained stunned at the door not believing the immensity of trouble my father had undergone to get me the least expected gift. I had thought that my parents were unaware about my passion for her. I was bewildered. I had last seen her somewhere or with someone but that was too vague to remember then. She sat there shy and silent as I walked towards her.
Her hair was nothing but a mane of silk threads scattered over her thin shoulders. I sat down near her and touched those silky hairs. ‘Is that a correct approach’ I asked to myself. She was reticent to my loving touch. Nevertheless I pulled one strand of her silky hair harder to gain her attention and lo! What a mellifluous voice she has, I concluded. If she spoke her words and sound would have dispelled all pain of romantic sorrow. But alas! She did not utter a word. Nor could she. Yet, she was an icon of her creator apt to saying what beauty means to a beholder.
The curves of her body had no room for imperfection, nor did she emanate any shade of somberness. I bent and kissed her gently on the brow, afraid if she should disintegrate into pieces. She did not recoil in any for of embarrassment. She was ice cold! Perhaps it was the breath of winter intruding from the open window; I assumed feeling pity for her.
That night after a king’s banquet and words of au re voir I returned to my room to give her company. I sat on the bed and played with her, my parents gift; a traditional musical instrument-dranyen, till I fell asleep exhausted to the bone.

A lesson on Virtues

I don’t forget 19^th October as easily as any other memorable day. Neither will the two men who became the victim of their arrogance nor I for the pride I feel for being able to barge into their inhumane manners with the public.

It was Saturday, scorching and dusty in Phuentsholing. After the morning assembly I managed fifteen minutes of time to go and collect my quota of kerosene fuel. It was the first time for a new resident in town. I had collected token receipt for 10 litres the other day from the Trade and Commerce office below the auction yard. It had taken me two hours of standing in the queue to submit my Identity card copy and residential authorization letter.

At  9.15AM I drove into the BOD premises. I saw an Indian woman walking down the road with an empty jerkin slinging from her fingers. I was unsure where to approach for the kerosene.  I know where petrol and diesel is refueled from for the cars.  I went to the gentleman who was holding the pump nozzle taking him to be the right person to start my enquiry. He had his copper-coloured hair bound with a ribbon. ‘He must have been a brash student in his time,’ I guessed. The copper boy replied to my enquiry with indifference, ‘I don’t know, ask him,’ he said pointing to the man behind the counter who I assumed to be an account officer from the way he issued a receipt to a tipper truck driver. I bent low to talk him through the pigeon hole, ‘excuse me sir,’ I intoned humbly, ‘ daaju, yo kerosene tel chin ko lai din tsho wala…’  The man briefly stared at me and told me the manager would come at three in the afternoon. I was relieved. Immediately I returned to school and re-substituted my friend who substituted me half an hour before for the class ten trial exam which began a week ago.

During the lunch recess it was an unfortunate coincidence that one of my class student collapsed in the corridor from a stomachache and I had to reach her to the emergency room at the hospital. When I came to school it was three. I had missed my lunch too.

At about 3.15PM I drove to BOD once again before I left home. As I alighted, the copper coloured boy was near the pump fiddling in his cash bag. I asked him if the manager arrived. ‘He is in the office, go from the back door.’ He bawled with reluctance. Two women in sari were near the pump with a jerkin each. I proceeded into the dimly lit room peering to the door to locate the office tag. There was none. A sturdy man in ashen track suit was about to lock the door. Without much ado I beamed closer to him, showing my token receipt ‘Sir, are you the manager? I came for the kerosene..’ I could hardly finish my statement when he replied bluntly, ‘It’s time to close, come on Monday..’ I was exasperated at his answer.

‘Monday’ sent my heart go numb. I told him I came in the morning and was told to come in the afternoon. He froze for a moment. He opened the office door and went in as if he had forgotten something. I followed him close behind. His office, the manager’s office, was a no larger than three by three meter disorganized room with an old wooden table that used to be the teachers’ table during my primary school days.

A woman with a jerkin and money in her fist entered behind me just as the manager sat behind the desk. He looked once out of the window and leafed through some log books on the table. I wondered if he went back in to leaf through some forgotten memoirs or to give us his permission for the fuel. I became impatient with his discourtesy. I asked him again if we could have the fuel. ‘Monday ma aauu nu..’ he was adamant. The woman behind me with a curly hair pleaded that she had exhausted her cooking fuel at home. No statement seemed to move him. ‘Why was he behaving coldly, as if he owned the whole world?’ I mused.

I was collecting the kerosene for a  Bhutanese monk at retreat in Kalimpong. I was supposed to send it the other day then. I felt annoyed at the manager’s indifferent attitude and made my last request. I deliberately told him I was busy with the class ten examination duties at school and may not get time to come again. It was a deliberate reason to awake his obligation.After what seemed like a minute’s silence he gestured, ‘ak so bis deenu nu…’ I looked at him, ‘Oh! Do we have to pay?’ He affirmed nodding lazily. The woman behind me handed her money and the receipt. The manager tore a corner of a paper, scribbled something with a pencil and gave to her. I gave my receipt and money. He gave me a paper torn from the edge of an Indian magazine with a word written ’10 litrs’ with a lead pencil and nothing else. I wondered why he took almost twenty minutes to tear that fragment and write an insignificant number. Bureaucratic monopoly was more evident than the gross attitude of that mole hill of a man.

I walked out with a word of ‘thank you’ and went to the pump boy, the copper man, who I thought would fill my jerkin. The woman who went before me cut me short of the pump boy. She was grumbling and appeared annoyed. She had approached the other pump boy, the dark complexion gentleman, who was a meter away fuelling a taxi and was told to ask the copper boy. ‘I don’t know whom to ask, these boys are pointing to one another!’ She blurted to me. I asked the dark complexion humbly, ‘Who gives the fuel now?’ I was already agitated by their manners. ‘Ask him, am not the one’ he directed me to the copper man who stood leaning against the wall, his hands folded to display some sort of dominance in the area. Though irritated at his rustic way of speech I approached him anyway, ‘wai, the kerosene,’ I said, showing my fragment of news paper. Instantly he replied, ‘I don’t know sir; I have no authority to give…’ I went to the manager and asked him from the office door, ‘sir, who is going to give the fuel?’ He told me the ‘pump boy’ will fuel us. It was a confusing situation. The pump boy says they don’t know and pushes us one to the other like a ball and the manager calmly says the pump boy is responsible.

As I came out the dark-complexioned boy went into the managers’ office. I was about to ask the copper man again when the dark fellow came and tossed the machine key to him. My patience broke loose right there. I almost yelled at him, ‘ hey, you said you don’t know all this while and now you have the keys. What is this?’ He replied with an crude arrogance, ‘I said I don’t have the authority, the keys are with manager.’ his answered infuriated  me more. ‘Why couldn’t you say the keys were with manager before? Why did you push us between the two of you? We are your customer and this is not the way you deal with us.’

He stood there rooted against the wall looking at his toes. ‘You earn because we pay for your service, you could at least be customer-friendly when we ask.’ I lectured on. I went to the other pump boy,dark one, who was then refueling a car. “ Hey!’ I commanded to gain his attention. ‘What do you think we are? Animals! You said you are not the one to give the fuel, yet  you went in to get the key?’ I questioned. I was angry to the bone. ‘I told you I don’t know..’ He replied like his friend did and I realized that they harassed their customers in those uncivil manners. ‘Then how did you know the keys are with the manager? You should have said you will get the keys. You played with us. We are also servant of the nation, we know how to behave with the public.’ I railed for some more time and even asked him to leave the job if he did not know how to serve. The last thing I said to him was, ‘If don’t respect me in these national dress code, you are not respecting tsa wa sum. I could call police for that.’ His neck lost the energy to keep his hot head upright and lips were dumb.

I returned to the copper man, the pump boy, who had already filled the jerkin for the woman then. There as he filled my jerkin I continued my lecture. I apologized for being harsh and told him that we as Bhutanese are sober and generous and I had not anticipated a power-play and a demonstration of indifference from people as young as them. I asked him how he would feel if he came to my office and I behaved in the cold, unwelcome and bossy way. He had little to say. I thanked him with a pat on the back and drove home feeling even hungrier.

As I lay on the couch I wondered if I acted little too less or little too much for the pump boys’ reaction.Did my action reveal my arrogance and ego too? I still wonder if I was right in my brutality in the manner I spoke.

On  another occasion  I encountered an epitome of humility-in-service at the Dungkhag office. What a paradox?

Tales of Drukpas’ wit on Tibetans

In the days of yore when our forefathers used to trade with the Tibetans in the north, there are tales of humour and wit our old ancestors used to play on the Tibetans so much so that Drukpas were famed to be very successful at bargaining with the Tibetans who envied Drukpas’ skills and wit.  Tibetan were at the loss of words to define our forefathers that they named them infamously as ‘drukpa La-Lo’ which means that Drukpas were untrustworthy and crooked.

Contrary to the Tibetans opinion, I would consider that our forefathers were humorously witty and a man of wisdom. In those days survival and success depended on one’s wisdom and wit too.

Height of Lhuentse Dzong

1.Once two Drukpa traders left for Lhasa from Lhuentse. It was about a fortnight’s journey from Lhuentsi. They reached Lhasa exhausted from days of travel.

A few distances away from their resting place four Tibetans were playing dice. One of the Tibetans who knew drukpas to be clever at cheating and making false stories asked his friends if they could believe drukpas to be clever than Tibetans. The three friends denied betting on the subject. The first Tibetan asked  his friends that if he could entice drukpas to tell them a tale beyond imagination his friends must pay him a silver coin each and if the drukpas came out to be pair of fools he would pay a silver coin each to them.

Having decided on the bet the first Tibetan called the drukpas and began the introductory conversation. First Tibetan asked. ‘Wai Drukpa, are you from around the Lhuentse dzong?’The Drukpa told them they were from near the dzong site. The Tibetan continued, ‘I heard that they were installing Utse(pinnacle) is that true?’ Drukpas replied with a grin, ‘That is true, they were changing some of the moth eaten roof shingles too.’ The Tibetans waited curiously to hear more. ‘I was told that while arranging the shingles the zaou(chief carpenter) fell off the roof and was never seen again.’ The Tibetan enticed on, building more tales. The drukpas had no difficulty replying with pride, ‘Yes, yes, the zaou fell off the roof with an old wooden shingle in his hands.’ Tibetan added, ‘Is it true the dzong is many stories high.’ The drukpas replied, ‘See, it has been two weeks since we left Lhuentse and until now we have not heard of the zaou having landed on the courtyard.’ This part of the answer took the other Tibetans by surprise. They were confused whether to believe or not to believe as the drukpas narrated the incident with words of conviction and realism.

The Tibetan friends not only came to know how witty drukpas were, they also lost their silver coins without a round of game being played that day.

In truth, Lhuentse dzong is an average sized structure and is located against a cliff on a knoll and it is convenient to erect the Utse with the support from the cliff precipice.

Sharing the Meal

2. Two Tibetan traders near the Bhutanese border were about to take the midday meal, a last bowl of tsampa(wheat flour) and ara(local brewed wine) by the narrow gorge under the shadow of a big boulder when they saw a Drukpa trader seething and sweating from the arduous climb up the rugged trail clambering towards them. He was thirsty and hungry as his measure of rice was exhausted that morning.

The older Tibetan warned the other neither to look nor to respond to the cunning drukpas who would he feared would fool them into sharing their meager meal. When the drukpa saw the two Tibetan relishing their meal and not showing any sign of courtesy, rather ignoring his approach, he felt annoyed and lonely on a mountain pass. This made the drukpa to scheme a way to make them respond to his questions. He leaned on his walking staff and bawled, ‘Trashi Delek, are you traders from Phari? May be not.” There was no answer. ‘Are you on pilgrimage to Dorjidhen?’ The Tibetan kept on eating in silence. ‘I am going to Lhasa to trade. Have you two got anything to barter?’

The drukpa trader’s eyes discreetly surveyed on their meal. He was getting impatient. ‘Wai, I have Dom-thrip(Bear gall) and Lar-tsi(——-) if you two are interested to buy.’ The Tibetans turned and looked at him immediately, their eyes flaring up with hunger for the rare medicines. The younger one asked, ‘you really have those things old man?’ The Drukpa took the chance of the moment, ‘wai, is it? If you insist I will take your little share.’ The older Tibetan cut in, ‘no,no, we were asking if you have the Dom-thri and Lar-tsi.’ The Drukpa sat down and took out his wooden phorp, ‘Thank you for your invitation, please serve me here.’ The Tibetan could do nothing but serve the most witty and unwelcome guest with the last of their tsampa.