Heart broken?
Well, this too shall pass eventually, but the most difficult thing is when you are going through the phase. It seriously suck to be heart broken, it’s a horrible feeling. A feeling where you feel the whole world is coming to an end. But trust me that is not the end.
Well, you and I aint the only ones who have been heartbroken. There are many who have been through this. We are not alone; everyone gets their heart broken once in their lifetime. What matters is how long you take to get over it.
Me, I am heartbroken because of many things. Sometimes life just doesn’t seem to go your way. So I just hold my head and feel so depressed, and eventually I have a broken heart, I remain heartbroken for a long time. And the moment something starts going my way, my broken heart is mended.
Who says broken hearts cannot be mended? It’s all a matter of time and yeah, a lot of patience.I am no pundit in getting my heart broken but yes, I have had this only heart of mine broken many a times.
I once had my heart broken because I couldnot see my grandma again. Her death broke my heart because I hurt her just the night before she died.
The other time my heart really broke was when my little brother, my better half got married. Yes, my heart was broken because I was thinking selfishly. To have his wife (believe me she is such a darling) take over as his better half was really heart breaking.
Kay is an old friend, when friendship turns out to be something beyond that everything gets screwed up. I was heart broken because I lost my good friend. He is a tough guy though, I am counting on him to get pass this difficult passage we both have to face.
My heart breaks every time I listen to certain songs which tells you that is either a love song or you might be heartbroken or the songs which gives you the vibes and you just know that certain songs are a part of your life.
I was heart broken when I watched the movie ‘In pursuit of happiness’. It reminded me of myself when I am broke by the second week of each month. Yea, it is suffocating, depressing and seriously heart breaking.
My heart not only broke but I cried when I interviewed a woman for my article, “Battered Wives”. I was heartbroken that her story would cause anyone pain. It should be a source of joy. Her story is a metaphor about how we try to stay in our own little bubbles, we don't let life in, and we don't take the journey of life either.
My heart breaks every time my son falls sick, such a little innocent thing sick. I try to protect him from any thing that would harm him. But when things go beyond my control, I feel helpless, guilty and heart broken
.But most of all I was heart broken when I saw pictures of women carrying children to work. The women were sex workers, and their clients made them work infrount of the children. I have had my heart broken over a lot of things, but like how people truly fall in love once in their life time, my heart truly broke for the first time when I saw those pictures!
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Art of Drinking!
Tequila makes me violent but that’s what I am and I love it.
Vodka sneaks up on me like an evil assassin of drunkenness.
Gin, on the other hand, turns me mean, it’s a perfect energizer just before a basketball game. I strongly refute the idea that port gives you worse hangovers.
Champagne gets me stumbling around quickly but this is likely to be because I only ever drink it at parties without eating properly.
Mixers make a difference too.
All alcohol is depressant and sedative but drinking vodka with Red Bull or Coke (loaded with sugar and caffeine) will obviously have a different effect than drinking it neat.
Beer often is a drink to get you laid, but it bloats up my stomach and heaven forbid what happens after that.
My sinusitis becomes clear with the strong smell of whiskey but to drink it is out of the question.I enjoy the classiness while drinking wine, but it makes me mistake words for thoughts.
I like our very own Ara, I have always liked it and that’s why I aint touching it ever again.
Druk 11000 has taken out a lot from inside me and 1000 beer has been my college drink.
Black mountain made me master the art of getting drunk and Baileys have basically made my pockets empty.
Traditional alcohol like Tongba and Bangchang always brings out the Bhutanese in me.
There is a devil in every berry of the grape wine, the drink responsible for getting me into trouble with dad.
I would take poison but I can’t stand the taste of rum.
I would rather have my belly burst than miss out on a drink like Jungle Fever.
I have always preferred the olives to martinis but the shaker always does the magic.
Changkey is the only alcohol I can drink without any limitations at family gatherings.
Rockbee is the cause and the solution to many of my life’s problems.
My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite when I got a shot of dad’s $1000 worth scotch and how I wish I can lay my lips on it again.
And then again reality bit me when I had to bump someone to buy me a shot of screw driver.
And yet when I think of drinking, it is the most essential part of me.
I have made friends, I have drowned my sorrows, celebrated my happiness and above all it has kept me alive.
Drinking is one thing and getting drunk is another so hats off to all the drunkards.
Vodka sneaks up on me like an evil assassin of drunkenness.
Gin, on the other hand, turns me mean, it’s a perfect energizer just before a basketball game. I strongly refute the idea that port gives you worse hangovers.
Champagne gets me stumbling around quickly but this is likely to be because I only ever drink it at parties without eating properly.
Mixers make a difference too.
All alcohol is depressant and sedative but drinking vodka with Red Bull or Coke (loaded with sugar and caffeine) will obviously have a different effect than drinking it neat.
Beer often is a drink to get you laid, but it bloats up my stomach and heaven forbid what happens after that.
My sinusitis becomes clear with the strong smell of whiskey but to drink it is out of the question.I enjoy the classiness while drinking wine, but it makes me mistake words for thoughts.
I like our very own Ara, I have always liked it and that’s why I aint touching it ever again.
Druk 11000 has taken out a lot from inside me and 1000 beer has been my college drink.
Black mountain made me master the art of getting drunk and Baileys have basically made my pockets empty.
Traditional alcohol like Tongba and Bangchang always brings out the Bhutanese in me.
There is a devil in every berry of the grape wine, the drink responsible for getting me into trouble with dad.
I would take poison but I can’t stand the taste of rum.
I would rather have my belly burst than miss out on a drink like Jungle Fever.
I have always preferred the olives to martinis but the shaker always does the magic.
Changkey is the only alcohol I can drink without any limitations at family gatherings.
Rockbee is the cause and the solution to many of my life’s problems.
My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite when I got a shot of dad’s $1000 worth scotch and how I wish I can lay my lips on it again.
And then again reality bit me when I had to bump someone to buy me a shot of screw driver.
And yet when I think of drinking, it is the most essential part of me.
I have made friends, I have drowned my sorrows, celebrated my happiness and above all it has kept me alive.
Drinking is one thing and getting drunk is another so hats off to all the drunkards.
Painful Success!
I stare at the keyboard, my fingers motion less, I stare at the screen, and it’s been blank for the last one hour. Where is the ponder which comes to me every night and gives me the words to write? (Hey it rhymes ha-ha) It surely seems to have disappeared today.
My note pad lies on my desk, containing one of the finest interviews I took and my pen which normally strikes off information used for my article has remained idle tonight. I curse the journalistic ethic of putting the punch line as the lead, getting the lead right needs a lot of brainstorming.
Somehow I always managed but tonight something is not right, I just can’t get the lead right. Am I missing the passion or is it the angered air because of some punks creating a scene outside my apartment?
Don’t be distracted, concentrate I tell myself.
Oh these words tonight just aren’t going anywhere, definitely not to the stories’ folder tomorrow morning.
After an hour of thinking, re-writing, cursing, smoking innumerous cigarettes, sending a few SMS, looking at some pictures, I get a 55 word lead typed.
Balls! A lead has to be about 45 words, I think again, re-write, smoke again (no SMS this time) and finally get a lead of 40 words.
Perfect! The flow is on, my fingers busy, my idle pen striking off the information used, smiling, there is no stopping me now.
Hell! Wait! I cannot figure out a word, damn, I should have asked the interviewee to slow down or I should have written it a bit slowly. I read the sentence over and over, trying to get the word. Damn! How I wish I could just presume it and go on. I figure it out after a while, voila, I get back with the flow.
What’s next? A quote doesnot make sense at all, I pick up my phone and try to call the interviewee to confirm it, and he isn’t answering. I try again, and again and again.
No answer! I rise from my chair, pace the floor to and fro, I stop, and pace again, I stop and kick a chair. I hit my darn toe. The ring of my phone doesnot let me curse the pain. I pick it up, great! I have the quote now.
I hop back to the keyboard and begin to type the last paragraph and get done with my article, finally!
Amazing how pain can unstick the words stuck in the middle of the night. My painful success! Happy and satisfied, I slip into my warm bed; I put off the lights and close my eyes.
Wait! I open it, “my editor better publish this article after all that I have gone through,” I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep!
My note pad lies on my desk, containing one of the finest interviews I took and my pen which normally strikes off information used for my article has remained idle tonight. I curse the journalistic ethic of putting the punch line as the lead, getting the lead right needs a lot of brainstorming.
Somehow I always managed but tonight something is not right, I just can’t get the lead right. Am I missing the passion or is it the angered air because of some punks creating a scene outside my apartment?
Don’t be distracted, concentrate I tell myself.
Oh these words tonight just aren’t going anywhere, definitely not to the stories’ folder tomorrow morning.
After an hour of thinking, re-writing, cursing, smoking innumerous cigarettes, sending a few SMS, looking at some pictures, I get a 55 word lead typed.
Balls! A lead has to be about 45 words, I think again, re-write, smoke again (no SMS this time) and finally get a lead of 40 words.
Perfect! The flow is on, my fingers busy, my idle pen striking off the information used, smiling, there is no stopping me now.
Hell! Wait! I cannot figure out a word, damn, I should have asked the interviewee to slow down or I should have written it a bit slowly. I read the sentence over and over, trying to get the word. Damn! How I wish I could just presume it and go on. I figure it out after a while, voila, I get back with the flow.
What’s next? A quote doesnot make sense at all, I pick up my phone and try to call the interviewee to confirm it, and he isn’t answering. I try again, and again and again.
No answer! I rise from my chair, pace the floor to and fro, I stop, and pace again, I stop and kick a chair. I hit my darn toe. The ring of my phone doesnot let me curse the pain. I pick it up, great! I have the quote now.
I hop back to the keyboard and begin to type the last paragraph and get done with my article, finally!
Amazing how pain can unstick the words stuck in the middle of the night. My painful success! Happy and satisfied, I slip into my warm bed; I put off the lights and close my eyes.
Wait! I open it, “my editor better publish this article after all that I have gone through,” I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep!
What is my existence to this world?
What is my existence to this world?
I am a subject to the realities of life
My realities seem to be just a dream
How so ever, I maybeThe way I perceive life to be
This is me
Often my past pulls me down
And then my future excites me
Then there is my present
Giving me an existence in this world
A reason to be in the worldNo matter how much I hate it
The biggest irony in this life
Is to smile when things are harsh on you
Just to make yourself believe
That a smile makes a day brighter
It does, for a while
But you just can’t go on smiling forever
My thoughts often remain within me
Subdued inside a person in me
Stubborn as can be but very volatile to
oMaking life be practical and not think positively
Aiming aimlessly too high
And not knowing where she is going
People can often be confusing
I aint no exception
It’s the confused life that makes people explicable
And yet people never try to look within
The outside aint just everything
A bigger world, a bigger life, a bigger person
Lives within every individual
Yet when I still question myself
What is my existence to this world?
I still get no answer
Because the answer is within myself
And until I don’t discover myself
I may never find out.
I am a subject to the realities of life
My realities seem to be just a dream
How so ever, I maybeThe way I perceive life to be
This is me
Often my past pulls me down
And then my future excites me
Then there is my present
Giving me an existence in this world
A reason to be in the worldNo matter how much I hate it
The biggest irony in this life
Is to smile when things are harsh on you
Just to make yourself believe
That a smile makes a day brighter
It does, for a while
But you just can’t go on smiling forever
My thoughts often remain within me
Subdued inside a person in me
Stubborn as can be but very volatile to
oMaking life be practical and not think positively
Aiming aimlessly too high
And not knowing where she is going
People can often be confusing
I aint no exception
It’s the confused life that makes people explicable
And yet people never try to look within
The outside aint just everything
A bigger world, a bigger life, a bigger person
Lives within every individual
Yet when I still question myself
What is my existence to this world?
I still get no answer
Because the answer is within myself
And until I don’t discover myself
I may never find out.
things have changed!
I was just casually talking to a friend of mine from high school on this article on “Sexual Revolution” I will be writing for the Bhutan Now Magazine (which must be forgotten by most people after its first issue). Don’t worry people, it is gonna make a comeback with the second issue soon.
Nevertheless, we landed up talking about how things have changed over the years. “Look at us,” was the justification to what our conversation was about.
True, “look at us,” just a few years ago, this us, were a bunch of teenagers only worried about how to miss school the next day or what western wear would be best suited to watch a basketball game at the swimming pool.
And “look at us,” today, in kira, sitting at Thimphu’s fine Art Café, sipping on coffee with our very own earned money and talking about work.
This was not us a few years ago.
A few years ago, we will be sitting in one of Hong Kong market’s shady restaurant, sipping on less milk- more water coffee and talking about boys. (Not that we don’t talk about boys anymore) This us would clean the house, help our mothers cook, help dad with gardening, wash the family car and be a good girl all week long just to go out dancing on Saturday at All Stars.
And today, we don’t even mention All Stars; it is rather embarrassing to even talk about it just randomly. Why? Because, today there are new discos to go to, with better music and more decent crowd.
Like I was telling my friend, All Stars was the place why we learnt to groom ourselves, dress properly and learnt to be the in-thing in town.Sitting outside the Zone, watching teenagers dressed in the latest trends often reminds me of myself when I was also a teenager.
Ofcourse, the skirts have become shorter and the tops a lot smaller.
Despite my age, I too try to be still in fashion and I have often dressed myself in the shortest of skirts and smallest of tops. Somehow, this teen fashion is only meant for teens as they look far better than I do.
We have come a long way now, we both agree on it.
It’s been a while, since we have got dressed before a week to the big day. It’s been a while since we have got butterfly in our stomach just looking at Mr. Happening pass by. It’s been a while since we have been grounded by our parents. At the age of 24, I know it’s not healthy to feel so old. “Life begins at 40,” we tell each other.
Yeap, it sure does, so if life actually begins at 40, we still have 16 more years to feel young.
Once another high school friend came and asked me if it’s normal to find a girl six years younger to him hot. I was like, “dude I have my eyes on my nephew’s friends, it sure is normal.”
So I look at my life before and now, I was once a girl with dreams, a girl with long hair ( I don’t know if this was necessary), a girl with a family, a girl without a driver’s license, a girl without a job and most of all just a girl.
Today I am someone who has fulfilled her dreams (well a larger part of it), a girl with a driver’s license and a car, a girl with a job and a girl who has become a woman. From a little girl who played in the dust, I have become a woman who doesnot play at all.
I have achieved what I have wanted and I have lost what I have wanted to keep. I have grown physically as well as mentally, become a woman from a girl.
And yet there are times, when I am still this little girl my father once used to know, the little girl who loves to play in the rain. The little girl who plays boxing with her three year old son and the little girl who still cries when her mother screams at her.
Nevertheless, we landed up talking about how things have changed over the years. “Look at us,” was the justification to what our conversation was about.
True, “look at us,” just a few years ago, this us, were a bunch of teenagers only worried about how to miss school the next day or what western wear would be best suited to watch a basketball game at the swimming pool.
And “look at us,” today, in kira, sitting at Thimphu’s fine Art Café, sipping on coffee with our very own earned money and talking about work.
This was not us a few years ago.
A few years ago, we will be sitting in one of Hong Kong market’s shady restaurant, sipping on less milk- more water coffee and talking about boys. (Not that we don’t talk about boys anymore) This us would clean the house, help our mothers cook, help dad with gardening, wash the family car and be a good girl all week long just to go out dancing on Saturday at All Stars.
And today, we don’t even mention All Stars; it is rather embarrassing to even talk about it just randomly. Why? Because, today there are new discos to go to, with better music and more decent crowd.
Like I was telling my friend, All Stars was the place why we learnt to groom ourselves, dress properly and learnt to be the in-thing in town.Sitting outside the Zone, watching teenagers dressed in the latest trends often reminds me of myself when I was also a teenager.
Ofcourse, the skirts have become shorter and the tops a lot smaller.
Despite my age, I too try to be still in fashion and I have often dressed myself in the shortest of skirts and smallest of tops. Somehow, this teen fashion is only meant for teens as they look far better than I do.
We have come a long way now, we both agree on it.
It’s been a while, since we have got dressed before a week to the big day. It’s been a while since we have got butterfly in our stomach just looking at Mr. Happening pass by. It’s been a while since we have been grounded by our parents. At the age of 24, I know it’s not healthy to feel so old. “Life begins at 40,” we tell each other.
Yeap, it sure does, so if life actually begins at 40, we still have 16 more years to feel young.
Once another high school friend came and asked me if it’s normal to find a girl six years younger to him hot. I was like, “dude I have my eyes on my nephew’s friends, it sure is normal.”
So I look at my life before and now, I was once a girl with dreams, a girl with long hair ( I don’t know if this was necessary), a girl with a family, a girl without a driver’s license, a girl without a job and most of all just a girl.
Today I am someone who has fulfilled her dreams (well a larger part of it), a girl with a driver’s license and a car, a girl with a job and a girl who has become a woman. From a little girl who played in the dust, I have become a woman who doesnot play at all.
I have achieved what I have wanted and I have lost what I have wanted to keep. I have grown physically as well as mentally, become a woman from a girl.
And yet there are times, when I am still this little girl my father once used to know, the little girl who loves to play in the rain. The little girl who plays boxing with her three year old son and the little girl who still cries when her mother screams at her.
The end...the beginning!
I asked for another shot of Vodka, another double and then another.
The day was what I would call today, “D-Day.”
It was the day which gave me the freedom to finally be the real me. It was a day I had waited for all the while.
A set of mixed feelings had overcome me, I was happy but I was sad as well.My best friend called it “a state of confusion which gave me happiness.” True were her words.
What I feared the most was that it happened when I wasn’t ready at all. It just came suddenly and one signature on the paper from me was gonna decide it all.
I sat there, with the paper infront of me and a pen in my hand, looking out my window, wondering if should sign it or not. I must have read it over and over again, looking for some flaws so that I could send it back, so that I would have more time to think about it. But everything was perfect, what ever was required was there, the only thing missing was my signature.
I started to think about the very first time we got into a relationship.
Were we ever in love? I wonder.
No we were never; only circumstances bonded us to this life time commitment which was soon to be over. We were never happy together? We were not the same? The only thing that kept us together for three years was the bond. Bondage we never really approved from our hearts.We were miserable in this bondage, and it wasn’t fair on him to force himself to be in this bondage and neither was it for me.
I always thought a fine person like him deserved much more. I felt guilty keeping him tied to a relationship which had no future. I always thought we could be friends for the future of the one person we both loved so much. But I was wrong; we were just screwing up each other’s lives.
At that moment, going our own ways would have made me the happiest.
I wished for everything to end, to have my own freedom, to have happiness in my life without having to associate with him at all.
The first sight of the paper made me truly smile after three years. I was happy that it had come to me finally. But then at the same time, a sudden fear made me realize I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to face this world alone as a single mother.
I didn’t want my son to grow up saying, “my parents don’t live together anymore.” I didn’t want my son to grow up in a single mother’s home.I feared that my son would grow up to become an angry teenager, hating his parents for doing this to him. I feared that my son might suffer just because the parents wanted to be happy.
But then on the other hand, I look at how unhappy we both have been. I see myself crying everyday, wishing life turned out right for me. I see a person with a lot of self respect losing it because he got himself into a mess with me.
I could see my son growing up in a very unhealthy atmosphere at home.I close my eyes, take a deep breath and tell myself that if I don’t do this today, there will be three people who will be unhappy for a lifetime.
And if I do sign it, things will always take its shape into brining all three of us a better future if not a better present.
I finally sign it.
An end to another chapter of my life and a beginning to yet another completely new chapter.
The day was what I would call today, “D-Day.”
It was the day which gave me the freedom to finally be the real me. It was a day I had waited for all the while.
A set of mixed feelings had overcome me, I was happy but I was sad as well.My best friend called it “a state of confusion which gave me happiness.” True were her words.
What I feared the most was that it happened when I wasn’t ready at all. It just came suddenly and one signature on the paper from me was gonna decide it all.
I sat there, with the paper infront of me and a pen in my hand, looking out my window, wondering if should sign it or not. I must have read it over and over again, looking for some flaws so that I could send it back, so that I would have more time to think about it. But everything was perfect, what ever was required was there, the only thing missing was my signature.
I started to think about the very first time we got into a relationship.
Were we ever in love? I wonder.
No we were never; only circumstances bonded us to this life time commitment which was soon to be over. We were never happy together? We were not the same? The only thing that kept us together for three years was the bond. Bondage we never really approved from our hearts.We were miserable in this bondage, and it wasn’t fair on him to force himself to be in this bondage and neither was it for me.
I always thought a fine person like him deserved much more. I felt guilty keeping him tied to a relationship which had no future. I always thought we could be friends for the future of the one person we both loved so much. But I was wrong; we were just screwing up each other’s lives.
At that moment, going our own ways would have made me the happiest.
I wished for everything to end, to have my own freedom, to have happiness in my life without having to associate with him at all.
The first sight of the paper made me truly smile after three years. I was happy that it had come to me finally. But then at the same time, a sudden fear made me realize I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to face this world alone as a single mother.
I didn’t want my son to grow up saying, “my parents don’t live together anymore.” I didn’t want my son to grow up in a single mother’s home.I feared that my son would grow up to become an angry teenager, hating his parents for doing this to him. I feared that my son might suffer just because the parents wanted to be happy.
But then on the other hand, I look at how unhappy we both have been. I see myself crying everyday, wishing life turned out right for me. I see a person with a lot of self respect losing it because he got himself into a mess with me.
I could see my son growing up in a very unhealthy atmosphere at home.I close my eyes, take a deep breath and tell myself that if I don’t do this today, there will be three people who will be unhappy for a lifetime.
And if I do sign it, things will always take its shape into brining all three of us a better future if not a better present.
I finally sign it.
An end to another chapter of my life and a beginning to yet another completely new chapter.
~A Modern Pilgrim’s Progress to Bhutan’s Mystic “Lion Fort”
STARING AT THE DYING SUN, I forget my otherness.
My soul becomes the sky. It is pure, untainted, authentic space. I am free from the fetters of preconception, unbound by limitations, experiencing an ultimate field of possibilities.
Until I see the leech.
I try not to scream but there are half a dozen of the persistent little buggers (excuse me but there is no other way to describe them!) studiously climbing up my mud-soaked boots, leaving a trail of slime.
Fortunately Ap Yangku, our cook, guide and expedition leader in more ways than one, gallantly plucks them off.
All around me, the entire group of dozen or so trekkers is now a chorus line of madly hopping people desperately clutching blood-soaked shoes in an effort to shake off the leeches.
Besides Tom Petty and Bob Dylan on my Disk-man, there is a young Bhutanese doctor, Choeda, my cousin Choden, an education officer named Dochu and a full camp and kitchen crew of cooks, local horsemen and their assistants.
All through my childhood my family elders spoke reverently of the place. My mother returned from her own trip a few years ago deeply moved by the sacred power of the holy sites surrounding Singye Dzong or “Lion Fort” (so named because it looks like a leaping lion). And now, here I am, trudging up the hill.
Day 1
An auspicious curve of rainbow bends from the heavens framing Lhuntse Dzong from where we set out on foot. Soon we are singing jauntily from a mad jukebox selection of open-ended tunes from current western pop (Tom and Bob leading the crew), Bollywood hits and popular Zhungdra songs.
The fact that only one person from the entire motley crew, namely Ap Yangku, knows the route is of little concern to us.Having begun our day at seven in the morning, our feet thump bravely over the Kuri Zam, bringing us in barely an hour to Khoma village.
We are full of pep and quite proud of the progress we have made.We wonder foolishly if this is going to be so easy.
Tom croons to me, conjuring a private rose-colored universe in the space between my earphones. That pretty much takes care of the trail along the Khoma River. Thanks, Tom.
What’s next?Itchy bugs.
Scratching madly at things I cannot even see, I wait for Ap Yangku and the porters to arrive, bearing lunch.
The river is long out of sight (although I can still hear the distant rumble) and all around are trees, trees and trees.Ap Yangku and the porters arrive drenched in their own sweat. Chewing my food guiltily, I wonder how the porters ever make a living.
Such meager reward for so much work.
In the afternoon we meet some people from Denchung, a village of a mere 20 inhabitants. Surely this is the smallest village in the world?
Afternoon tea is served by an ethereal waterfall that cascades toward us from dramatic cliffs. “When a rainbow is visible over the falls,” a local man says. “It means the spirits are preparing their meals”.
This is our first indication that we are now entering a landscape separate from the outside world. Another hour’s walk brings us to Khomagang, our stop for the night. We are greeted by the aroma of fresh ground maize and the traditional offering of local spirits (the worldly kind that puts a fire in your belly, that is).
After the meal and refreshments, the villagers attempt to convince us the local husk of a building with new roofs and incomplete walls is actually a guest house. Whatever, I think, as I pass out for the night.
If only.
Several times I toss and turn, trapped in the kind of nightmares that make you cold while the distant Khoma River or some primal drum beats a constant rhythm to my fitful dreams.
Day 2
In the bleary-eyed morning I see the constant drumming that punctuated my sleep was really a downpour. Of course, every single person who had scoffed at our “guest house” the previous night is now sheepishly ensconced within its half-finished walls.
After breakfast with a lingering aftertaste of wood smoke we resume our trek, passing a military outpost at Tsikhang.
Shortly after lunch, the rain comes down again, just as we had predicted. I am glad we have all taken the time this morning to wrap our clothes and bedding in plastic to keep them from getting wet.
Despite the dubious protection of a decade-old rain jacket I am soaked, from my pants to my shoes to my socks. The cold sets in and my feet ache, dispelling any illusions from the previous day of a leisurely stroll through the woods.
The afternoon chai break is the best cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life. Another half-hour back on the trail brings us to our camp, a place called Thangkarmo. Here I have my first opportunity all day to change into some dry clothes.
I marvel at how often we take for granted the delicious pleasure and comfort of a warm set of clothes.
Despite the leaky roof, our crudely built “guest house” tonight feels like a five-star luxury hotel. And, of course, everyone knows where they are going to sleep tonight, right?Since it has been a long tiring day, we decide to break out the bottle of Johnny Walker as a treat for the crew.
Most of them have never tasted imported whisky and are ecstatic at the opportunity.In the afterglow of some excellent whisky, we all settle in for the night.
Day 3
Everyone wakes up rested and excited. Today we roll into Singye Dzong!But first there are four hours of plodding through the mud. Several times I slip over treacherous logs and land on my rear, getting myself wet and muddy all over.
We pass an amazingly massive and beautiful rock formation at Toktophu, with what locals consider to be holy water or drupchu dripping down its sides. Lunch is at Doksum, “the place where three trails meet”. Dr. Choeda arrives breathless. “The rest are still far behind,” he says. “We have no connection.
Not sure when they will get here.”This gives me some time to contemplate the river from a nearby bridge. I feel its fine misty fingers caressing my face. I close my eyes.
Afterwards, as we wait some more, Dr. Choeda confides that arriving at Singye Dzong will be his next greatest lifetime achievement since receiving a doctor’s degree.
Ditto!When the stragglers finally arrive Choden is complaining about the blisters on her palm. From leaning too much on her makeshift hiking pole, she says. Dochu, the education officer, says he has aching feet. Somewhere, somehow, shoes have been exchanged.
No one knows why but Choden is now wearing the education officer’s shoes and he hers.Apart from that, spirits are still high.“My hands hurt as well,” Dochu teases. “From Choden clinging to me all the time!”
However Ap Yangku, our normally hardy beacon of hope, has lost some of his normal cheer and appears somewhat peaked. “It’s the altitude,” he says. “It makes it very difficult for me to walk.”Arrival“And there, ahead of us, is the incomparable Singye Dzong”, Ap Yangku says with a flourish. “Bow your heads and make your prayers.”There is no magnificent fortress the usage of word Dzong normally implies.
The Lion Fort, it turns out, is no manmade monument but a unique geological formation. Of course I have gathered as much from the stories I have heard, but it is no less a shock.
What Ap Yangku is bowing to is a mountain, old and immense and timeless. The surrounding valley is beautiful, every bit deserving of its reputation as a Bae Yul, a “hidden land” of perfection.
I feel every step, every bead of sweat, every single discomfort we have endured on the entire three-day trek rewarded manifold.The sky is clear, expansive, and small distant streams coil down from the mountains.
Ancient temples dot the landscape, the only evidence of human habitation.Ap Yangku spurs us the final stretch with a bit of tomfoolery. There is a sacred rock where we can leave our thumbprints so our parents will be blessed, he says.
But we have to run, or it will not work. So we run and wildly stamp our digits on the first interesting rock beside the trail, until he arrives, laughing all the way. Near the main temple in the valley, the resident lama greets us politely and directs us to the nearby guest house.
When the porters arrive, they are carrying some yak meat they claim came from a fresh Tiger kill. Whatever the truth, the stew at dinner is delicious and tender and juicy.
Later, I turn on my Disk-man, as we slip into bed (Choden and I have our own private room). Jack Johnson, whoever he is, lulls me to sleep. Breakfast holds a pleasant surprise outside our window.
The mountains have donned a white mantle of snow during the night. In some inexplicable way, I feel as if Singye Dzong has done this just to welcome us.I wear my warmest clothes in several layers until I feel like an overdressed Eskimo.
We are going to climb to 18,000 feet today and everyone runs to Ap Yangku for a fill of his sweet black tea as we have heard it will stave altitude sickness. I do fine in the beginning. But as the day wears on I feel I am being suffocated and the many layers make me hot and uncomfortable.
I am giddy and then nauseated, following which…well, I’ll spare the details.The entire group worries and fusses over me. They hand me all kinds of sweet treats to spur me on. Sweets that get wedged in my cavities. I gobble everything like a fiend, but it doesn’t help.
My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts and my tooth begins to ache.Dr. Choeda feels my pressure and says it is much too low. But I don’t want to give up after coming this far. He gives me a satchet of Oral Rehydration Salts. I have always hated the taste of ORS. Finally, after what seems an eternity, I drag myself up the mountain to Tshonag or “the black lake,”, first of the holy sites on local pilgrims’ routes.
I stare at the lake and hear detachedly the group’s songs honoring the spirits of the lake. The cold air feels good and slowly the pounding in my head ceases. Soon there is nothing but the encompassing peace and quiet. It is indescribably beautiful, lying there at the foot of these snow covered mountains, staring at the lake, my mind mirroring its glassy surface.
On the other side is Tshokar or “the white lake”, completing the ying and yang, the yab-yum of this hallowed space. In the concrete words of science both these lakes are called glacial runoffs, but the geography of the spirit describes them as the earthly manifestations of a gigantic sheep― with black hindquarters and white heels― transformed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, patron saint of Bhutan.
Halfway between the two lakes, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a small cave where the Guru’s consort Khando Yeshey Tshogyal meditated and reached enlightenment. In the late afternoon, our rounds of the day complete, we head back down to the guest house after stopping for butter tea with a family of Yak herders.
The startled children outside the herders’ low stone huts begin to cry when they see us. “Please don’t mind the children,” one of the mothers says. “They never see so many strangers at one time.”Arriving back at the guest house as the last light is fading from the day, we drink celebratory rounds of Ara, eat and then sleep as only exhausted people sleep.
The Geography of Place and MythWe rise early again to give ourselves ample time to complete the prescribed circumambulations. First on the list is Gawa Dzong, with its magnificent statue of the Guru. Next is Dulwa Dzong, where we see a footprint in the rock credited to Khando Yeshey Tshogyal.
Further on, we climb a rock where the Guru is said to have meditated. Five celestial dakinis are appeared and offered the Guru holy water.
The celestial sisters can be seen today as the five trees that dominate the surrounding landscape. It is believed that one must offer a song to each of the five celestials. Quickly we begin to run out of songs and our less-than-impressive rendition of current Bhutanese pop degenerates into entirely nonsensical rhymes, ending in much hilarity.
I’m sure the celestials are satisfied, though. After all, it’s the thought that counts.At Dorji Dzong, the next site on our rounds, we hear the following story:One day the Guru saw a frog climbing up the cliffs with the intent of plundering a beehive.
The Guru divined this to be a bad omen for the world and subdued the frog, preventing all frogs thereafter from ever climbing a cliff or a tree.Other places come in quick succession, including Pema Dzong and Namkhai Dzong and Rinchen Dzong.
Soon the legends all blur and blend. We are grateful to break for lunch. In the afternoon, we take a tour of the main Singye Dzong complex, where we are introduced to three kinds of holy water whose sources are credited to the Guru and his two consorts, Khandro Tshogyal and Khandro Mendharawa.
We stop at a site with an imprint of Khandro Tshoyal’s back on the rock and are told that fervent pilgrims can sometimes make holy water ooze from the bare rock. At another rock, with interesting black and white striations, we learn is the place where the Guru has imprisoned 108 mythical Garudas who could wreak havoc in the world.
During the entire day we have not once thought about the physical strain of walking and climbing. Instead, we dip in and out of the exquisite landscape in front of us and the mythical and magical topography unfolding in our minds until I am quite unable to decide which is more real, the place in front of my eyes or the one that now inhabits my mind. I am not even sure there is a difference.
Some people believe that truly dramatic landscapes such as waterfalls, rocks and mountains can be true portals into the higher realms of the spirit.
For centuries, generations of my people have known this to be such a place.
By the end of our week long journey into the inner landscape of the spirit and outer geography of the land, I have no doubt Singye Dzong is a remarkable place of enduring spiritual power.
The Answer is blowing in the Wind
When we arrive back in Khomagang, a triple layer rainbow greets us, taking away the need for words. Back in “civilization”, I say my farewells, dispensing with my hiking boots and socks, and handing them to one of the grateful young porters. I think of cheerful Ap Yangku, who made it all possible, and of all the others who shared this incredible journey.
I feel as if I have stepped into the heart of the world and come home with a precious lesson I may not be able to articulate. It may be true what the great masters have to say.The deepest truths are heard only in the expansive space of silence.“The answer” according to my friend Bob, “is blowing in the wind.”
My soul becomes the sky. It is pure, untainted, authentic space. I am free from the fetters of preconception, unbound by limitations, experiencing an ultimate field of possibilities.
Until I see the leech.
I try not to scream but there are half a dozen of the persistent little buggers (excuse me but there is no other way to describe them!) studiously climbing up my mud-soaked boots, leaving a trail of slime.
Fortunately Ap Yangku, our cook, guide and expedition leader in more ways than one, gallantly plucks them off.
All around me, the entire group of dozen or so trekkers is now a chorus line of madly hopping people desperately clutching blood-soaked shoes in an effort to shake off the leeches.
Besides Tom Petty and Bob Dylan on my Disk-man, there is a young Bhutanese doctor, Choeda, my cousin Choden, an education officer named Dochu and a full camp and kitchen crew of cooks, local horsemen and their assistants.
All through my childhood my family elders spoke reverently of the place. My mother returned from her own trip a few years ago deeply moved by the sacred power of the holy sites surrounding Singye Dzong or “Lion Fort” (so named because it looks like a leaping lion). And now, here I am, trudging up the hill.
Day 1
An auspicious curve of rainbow bends from the heavens framing Lhuntse Dzong from where we set out on foot. Soon we are singing jauntily from a mad jukebox selection of open-ended tunes from current western pop (Tom and Bob leading the crew), Bollywood hits and popular Zhungdra songs.
The fact that only one person from the entire motley crew, namely Ap Yangku, knows the route is of little concern to us.Having begun our day at seven in the morning, our feet thump bravely over the Kuri Zam, bringing us in barely an hour to Khoma village.
We are full of pep and quite proud of the progress we have made.We wonder foolishly if this is going to be so easy.
Tom croons to me, conjuring a private rose-colored universe in the space between my earphones. That pretty much takes care of the trail along the Khoma River. Thanks, Tom.
What’s next?Itchy bugs.
Scratching madly at things I cannot even see, I wait for Ap Yangku and the porters to arrive, bearing lunch.
The river is long out of sight (although I can still hear the distant rumble) and all around are trees, trees and trees.Ap Yangku and the porters arrive drenched in their own sweat. Chewing my food guiltily, I wonder how the porters ever make a living.
Such meager reward for so much work.
In the afternoon we meet some people from Denchung, a village of a mere 20 inhabitants. Surely this is the smallest village in the world?
Afternoon tea is served by an ethereal waterfall that cascades toward us from dramatic cliffs. “When a rainbow is visible over the falls,” a local man says. “It means the spirits are preparing their meals”.
This is our first indication that we are now entering a landscape separate from the outside world. Another hour’s walk brings us to Khomagang, our stop for the night. We are greeted by the aroma of fresh ground maize and the traditional offering of local spirits (the worldly kind that puts a fire in your belly, that is).
After the meal and refreshments, the villagers attempt to convince us the local husk of a building with new roofs and incomplete walls is actually a guest house. Whatever, I think, as I pass out for the night.
If only.
Several times I toss and turn, trapped in the kind of nightmares that make you cold while the distant Khoma River or some primal drum beats a constant rhythm to my fitful dreams.
Day 2
In the bleary-eyed morning I see the constant drumming that punctuated my sleep was really a downpour. Of course, every single person who had scoffed at our “guest house” the previous night is now sheepishly ensconced within its half-finished walls.
After breakfast with a lingering aftertaste of wood smoke we resume our trek, passing a military outpost at Tsikhang.
Shortly after lunch, the rain comes down again, just as we had predicted. I am glad we have all taken the time this morning to wrap our clothes and bedding in plastic to keep them from getting wet.
Despite the dubious protection of a decade-old rain jacket I am soaked, from my pants to my shoes to my socks. The cold sets in and my feet ache, dispelling any illusions from the previous day of a leisurely stroll through the woods.
The afternoon chai break is the best cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life. Another half-hour back on the trail brings us to our camp, a place called Thangkarmo. Here I have my first opportunity all day to change into some dry clothes.
I marvel at how often we take for granted the delicious pleasure and comfort of a warm set of clothes.
Despite the leaky roof, our crudely built “guest house” tonight feels like a five-star luxury hotel. And, of course, everyone knows where they are going to sleep tonight, right?Since it has been a long tiring day, we decide to break out the bottle of Johnny Walker as a treat for the crew.
Most of them have never tasted imported whisky and are ecstatic at the opportunity.In the afterglow of some excellent whisky, we all settle in for the night.
Day 3
Everyone wakes up rested and excited. Today we roll into Singye Dzong!But first there are four hours of plodding through the mud. Several times I slip over treacherous logs and land on my rear, getting myself wet and muddy all over.
We pass an amazingly massive and beautiful rock formation at Toktophu, with what locals consider to be holy water or drupchu dripping down its sides. Lunch is at Doksum, “the place where three trails meet”. Dr. Choeda arrives breathless. “The rest are still far behind,” he says. “We have no connection.
Not sure when they will get here.”This gives me some time to contemplate the river from a nearby bridge. I feel its fine misty fingers caressing my face. I close my eyes.
Afterwards, as we wait some more, Dr. Choeda confides that arriving at Singye Dzong will be his next greatest lifetime achievement since receiving a doctor’s degree.
Ditto!When the stragglers finally arrive Choden is complaining about the blisters on her palm. From leaning too much on her makeshift hiking pole, she says. Dochu, the education officer, says he has aching feet. Somewhere, somehow, shoes have been exchanged.
No one knows why but Choden is now wearing the education officer’s shoes and he hers.Apart from that, spirits are still high.“My hands hurt as well,” Dochu teases. “From Choden clinging to me all the time!”
However Ap Yangku, our normally hardy beacon of hope, has lost some of his normal cheer and appears somewhat peaked. “It’s the altitude,” he says. “It makes it very difficult for me to walk.”Arrival“And there, ahead of us, is the incomparable Singye Dzong”, Ap Yangku says with a flourish. “Bow your heads and make your prayers.”There is no magnificent fortress the usage of word Dzong normally implies.
The Lion Fort, it turns out, is no manmade monument but a unique geological formation. Of course I have gathered as much from the stories I have heard, but it is no less a shock.
What Ap Yangku is bowing to is a mountain, old and immense and timeless. The surrounding valley is beautiful, every bit deserving of its reputation as a Bae Yul, a “hidden land” of perfection.
I feel every step, every bead of sweat, every single discomfort we have endured on the entire three-day trek rewarded manifold.The sky is clear, expansive, and small distant streams coil down from the mountains.
Ancient temples dot the landscape, the only evidence of human habitation.Ap Yangku spurs us the final stretch with a bit of tomfoolery. There is a sacred rock where we can leave our thumbprints so our parents will be blessed, he says.
But we have to run, or it will not work. So we run and wildly stamp our digits on the first interesting rock beside the trail, until he arrives, laughing all the way. Near the main temple in the valley, the resident lama greets us politely and directs us to the nearby guest house.
When the porters arrive, they are carrying some yak meat they claim came from a fresh Tiger kill. Whatever the truth, the stew at dinner is delicious and tender and juicy.
Later, I turn on my Disk-man, as we slip into bed (Choden and I have our own private room). Jack Johnson, whoever he is, lulls me to sleep. Breakfast holds a pleasant surprise outside our window.
The mountains have donned a white mantle of snow during the night. In some inexplicable way, I feel as if Singye Dzong has done this just to welcome us.I wear my warmest clothes in several layers until I feel like an overdressed Eskimo.
We are going to climb to 18,000 feet today and everyone runs to Ap Yangku for a fill of his sweet black tea as we have heard it will stave altitude sickness. I do fine in the beginning. But as the day wears on I feel I am being suffocated and the many layers make me hot and uncomfortable.
I am giddy and then nauseated, following which…well, I’ll spare the details.The entire group worries and fusses over me. They hand me all kinds of sweet treats to spur me on. Sweets that get wedged in my cavities. I gobble everything like a fiend, but it doesn’t help.
My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts and my tooth begins to ache.Dr. Choeda feels my pressure and says it is much too low. But I don’t want to give up after coming this far. He gives me a satchet of Oral Rehydration Salts. I have always hated the taste of ORS. Finally, after what seems an eternity, I drag myself up the mountain to Tshonag or “the black lake,”, first of the holy sites on local pilgrims’ routes.
I stare at the lake and hear detachedly the group’s songs honoring the spirits of the lake. The cold air feels good and slowly the pounding in my head ceases. Soon there is nothing but the encompassing peace and quiet. It is indescribably beautiful, lying there at the foot of these snow covered mountains, staring at the lake, my mind mirroring its glassy surface.
On the other side is Tshokar or “the white lake”, completing the ying and yang, the yab-yum of this hallowed space. In the concrete words of science both these lakes are called glacial runoffs, but the geography of the spirit describes them as the earthly manifestations of a gigantic sheep― with black hindquarters and white heels― transformed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, patron saint of Bhutan.
Halfway between the two lakes, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a small cave where the Guru’s consort Khando Yeshey Tshogyal meditated and reached enlightenment. In the late afternoon, our rounds of the day complete, we head back down to the guest house after stopping for butter tea with a family of Yak herders.
The startled children outside the herders’ low stone huts begin to cry when they see us. “Please don’t mind the children,” one of the mothers says. “They never see so many strangers at one time.”Arriving back at the guest house as the last light is fading from the day, we drink celebratory rounds of Ara, eat and then sleep as only exhausted people sleep.
The Geography of Place and MythWe rise early again to give ourselves ample time to complete the prescribed circumambulations. First on the list is Gawa Dzong, with its magnificent statue of the Guru. Next is Dulwa Dzong, where we see a footprint in the rock credited to Khando Yeshey Tshogyal.
Further on, we climb a rock where the Guru is said to have meditated. Five celestial dakinis are appeared and offered the Guru holy water.
The celestial sisters can be seen today as the five trees that dominate the surrounding landscape. It is believed that one must offer a song to each of the five celestials. Quickly we begin to run out of songs and our less-than-impressive rendition of current Bhutanese pop degenerates into entirely nonsensical rhymes, ending in much hilarity.
I’m sure the celestials are satisfied, though. After all, it’s the thought that counts.At Dorji Dzong, the next site on our rounds, we hear the following story:One day the Guru saw a frog climbing up the cliffs with the intent of plundering a beehive.
The Guru divined this to be a bad omen for the world and subdued the frog, preventing all frogs thereafter from ever climbing a cliff or a tree.Other places come in quick succession, including Pema Dzong and Namkhai Dzong and Rinchen Dzong.
Soon the legends all blur and blend. We are grateful to break for lunch. In the afternoon, we take a tour of the main Singye Dzong complex, where we are introduced to three kinds of holy water whose sources are credited to the Guru and his two consorts, Khandro Tshogyal and Khandro Mendharawa.
We stop at a site with an imprint of Khandro Tshoyal’s back on the rock and are told that fervent pilgrims can sometimes make holy water ooze from the bare rock. At another rock, with interesting black and white striations, we learn is the place where the Guru has imprisoned 108 mythical Garudas who could wreak havoc in the world.
During the entire day we have not once thought about the physical strain of walking and climbing. Instead, we dip in and out of the exquisite landscape in front of us and the mythical and magical topography unfolding in our minds until I am quite unable to decide which is more real, the place in front of my eyes or the one that now inhabits my mind. I am not even sure there is a difference.
Some people believe that truly dramatic landscapes such as waterfalls, rocks and mountains can be true portals into the higher realms of the spirit.
For centuries, generations of my people have known this to be such a place.
By the end of our week long journey into the inner landscape of the spirit and outer geography of the land, I have no doubt Singye Dzong is a remarkable place of enduring spiritual power.
The Answer is blowing in the Wind
When we arrive back in Khomagang, a triple layer rainbow greets us, taking away the need for words. Back in “civilization”, I say my farewells, dispensing with my hiking boots and socks, and handing them to one of the grateful young porters. I think of cheerful Ap Yangku, who made it all possible, and of all the others who shared this incredible journey.
I feel as if I have stepped into the heart of the world and come home with a precious lesson I may not be able to articulate. It may be true what the great masters have to say.The deepest truths are heard only in the expansive space of silence.“The answer” according to my friend Bob, “is blowing in the wind.”
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