Riding the FUN

To my flatmates...the laughter we share

Back to being a student, that too in a place like Sydney where we hear more about people being bitten by sharks than dogs, is like obtaining a key to a whole new chapter in life. Only, this chapter gets better because of immeasurable opportunities that circle us.

But this phase of life gets one reason short of being called heaven. If only we could own a car.

We have nothing against the public transportation here. In fact, it is perfect. But when our movement becomes scheduled and pretty predictable, it gets unnerving after a while. The skimpy stipend we survive on and the flurry of cars wedged along traffics in the biggest city in Australia portraying a daunting task to drive through makes owning a car almost impossible. So on a fateful day, when one of my flatmates walked in with a car key flashing from his fingers, it was bound to turn memorable.

He walked in, flaunted a big smile and said, “I am going to take my two ladies out for a ride today”.

Aue Karma has his way of saying things and the two “ladies”, that’s me and Ana Sonam, rolled our eyes like he was talking sense for the first time in a year of our existence under the same roof.

Like I said, Aue Karma has a way of going about. Whoever met him would concede with me  in saying the PHD pursuant is a man with a brain bigger for his size. I am definitely not hinting at his height, oh no. One day I made this mistake of calling him shorter and he asserted on standing in front of people, back to back, to see who stood taller. The observers’ verdict came in his favour. To this day, I feel they said he was “slightly taller” having understood the magnitude of sensitivity regarding his height.

Minus the altitude, the man himself is not so bad looking. I landed in Sydney well aware that I will be putting up with a person named Karma Nidup. I hopped into a cab bearing an image of a sturdy guy with beer belly, wise wrinkles and a rough accent. As I walked towards the house, my luck, a Bhutanese version of Michael J Fox walked towards me. “Are you Kesang?” asked the slim, in-shape guy, his silky hair swaying down his eyes. I was impressed.

As for the ride he offered that day, he prided in having borrowed the car from a friend of his. Without slightest hesitation, the two ladies said yes.

In any case, Ana Sonam would never say no. Sometimes I feel Sister Sonam Choki, as people would know her, should be upheld as an epitome of cooperation. She appears diffident and calm, perfect quality for a nurse. But this is where the tranquility in her ends. Let the nurse down a couple of wine glasses and a display of entertainment unfolds. Aue Karma and I still applaud ourselves for hooking an awesome dancer in a flatmate. Talk about partners in crime and we are it.

Getting back to the momentous day, we were all set for the once-in-a-Sydney-life-time ride.

Led by the hero himself, we crossed the road and walked towards the parking lot. From a distance, I could spot a brand new Corolla. I was about to shower Aue Karma another round of praise for doing a great job when he suddenly walked past the car, towards the opposite direction. Round the corner, awaiting us, stood a century old Hyundai Scoupe. A glance was enough to conclude that the car was pleading to be taken to a grave yard- too ancient to be on the road. That was when the fun actually began.

Initially, Ana Sonam and I consoled ourselves by saying, “maybe the car simply appears weary from outside. It cannot be that bad”. Having enough sense of decency, I chose to take the back seat, offering my senior the front seat while obviously Aue Karma took the wheel.

It was a three-door car so no doubt I entered from the front door. What killed me was when Aue Karma followed through the same entrance. The driver’s door could not even be opened. What more, the door was tied with a rope to the roof of the car, like some cardboard cars fixed with tapes as a solution to keep the parts intact. Should you have seen our driver crawl towards his seat, you would have urinated in your pants.

After positioning ourselves in the car, having decided to surprise a friend by visiting him, the driver ignited the car. Nothing happened. Another attempt and still nothing. Then Aue Karma pulled a thin rod from the dashboard and stuck it in a hole near the gear box. He instructed Ana Sonam to poke an imaginary knob inside every time he turned the key. The idea was bewildering and I thought the poor car nearly ripped open as we burst into fits of laughter. The sight of Ana Sonam poking the hole religiously while Aue Karma desperately tried to start the engine got me doubling out of amusement at the back.

After over a thousand attempts, the magic worked and the car coughed to life. I was yet to recover from the hilarity of the event when suddenly we realised our driver needed reminder of traffic light indicators. He was too engaged trying to figure out the road direction. We could have got caught that day but the good news is we didn’t. I feel proud to declare that we made it successfully to the friend’s place and even cat-called a Bhutanese friend walking past.

We were getting out of the car, thinking the worst part was over. Ana Sonam was trying to close the window she had opened, an endeavor to invite fresh air inside the impoverished little car. Aue Karma stopped her immediately, pressed the window button on his side, and asked her to slide her palm against the window pane on her side, and gradually try and slide it up. It was a desperate measure to shut the window and Ana Sonam pathetically performed the act. We emerged out of the car and within seconds, we were rolling on the ground, teary eyed, laughing our lungs out.

Our friend was undoubtedly astonished by our visit but he was more flabbergasted to see our ride. After staying over for sometime, we headed back following the same procedure of entering the car and starting the engine, leaving our friend slumping outrageously at the  sidewalk, having witnessed the hilarity of it all.

We lost our way several times, hit sudden breaks at traffics that nearly brought me to the front row but finally made it to the car owner’s house. The owner-friend was generous and offered to drop us home (while we had decided to walk) in his second car, a posh black Mercedes this time. The aristocratic journey back home was worth all the trouble.

As we entered the house, we couldn’t help recounting and cackling over the event that manifested into a more than anticipated episode. The incident happened almost three months ago and still tops our dinner conversation list today. So much for a joy ride in Sydney!

To those who do not read

To those who do not read!

No matter how much I pride in being a journalist and crow about it, my passion drops down to futility when more than frequently I encounter certain breed of human species. These species are literate, employed, making a standard living and maintaining a reasonable responsibility. But these are also the species born with a phobia for reading. If you are reading this, there is no doubt you will be surprised to learn this and might even start doubting my senses for such a dissertation. I don’t blame you for you are learning about this here probably because you love to read. Those who do not, the very breed I am writing about, won’t even spare a glance to this page.

Believe me when I say I have friends who could not dare to traverse the first few pages of the book they laid their hands on during school days. In the first place, the book ended up in their rooms after much physical exertion. The only trip to the library in their life is impressively chronological. The big walls, cold stairs, the silence and the semi-spiritual ambience of the library governed their wit instantly. Faltering and nervously maneuvering their way through, tall shelves housing literatures and journals evaporate the moisture on their throat. Dry coughs help breath and regain posture. To save from being mortified, first book they come across is grabbed before speeding out of the library.

Empathetically speaking, a little appreciation should be offered for the laborious act they pulled to visit the library that day. Someone probably told them reading is the best of habits. Having found it easier to cross the Saharan Desert than flipping the pages of the book, our readers capitulated. Knowing them well and knowing them hard, I am convinced the day also marked the demise of their reading tendency for the rest of their lives.

I have to make a slight clarification here. I am not cloaking a robe of wisdom and preaching about reading and its gains. Neither do I claim I did more reading than anyone I know. I didn’t. But from what I have read until today, my relentless heart does not allow me to compromise with the fact that those who are not reading are missing out on world of pearls.

Will they ever know that Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, who solved the mysteries with their inexorable approach, were only a bunch of kids and a dog? Will they know Frankenstein challenged the concept of death and became prey to the same monster he animated, and that Mary Shelly wrote about it when she was only 18 years of age? Will they understand how nature and its beauty manifested as muse to churn poetry off Keats and Wordsworth? Do they not want to cry with Alcott’s family when their father returns from war, back to where his “Little Women” awaits him? Will they forgo laughing at JD Salinger’s rebellious character Holden and his liberal use of sexual connotations to point out absurdity of life? Will they ever marvel at Harry Potter and his wizardry world, the magic human imagination can create?

If not for the fictions and creative knacks, do they not want to understand the causes of World Wars, its complexities, an assumed weapon of mass destruction being sheltered in Iraq? Can they not spare a thought on how poverty and genocide took millions of lives in African countries or why religions that should have addressed the sufferings became the origin of it? Will they ever enjoy the theatre staged by politicians around the globe as they trick the innocents for their gain? Do they not want to applaud the researchers doing wonders with science or lament the failure of sattelite launches? Will they learn about media stripping Tiger Woods of his hard earned honour in the golf-dom because he slept with women besides his wife?

Having answers to all the above questions might not make you the best of the mankind, or not even close to being the wisest or the richest, but it serves as a vitamin that enhances understanding and valuing the essence of existence. Reading supplies a person with every possible adjective that help live life full of colours and vigours. As clichéd as it can get, the statement that reading opens window to the world of knowledge stands true even today. Only reading triggers human element in all its aspects.

I am not letting my hopes die so soon. Thus, I carry a small torch of anticipation that if not for more, at least one of those-who-do-not-read-breed will accidentally peer on to this page. It could happen. When it does, I aspire to let them know that it is always not late to start reading. You tried it once, you might have gotten better today. So read, for this is the only proper way to live.

What I know of LOVE

What I Know of Love:

It is one abused word for sure- Love. Its interpretation correlates to an individual’s taste of it. Some savour it while others stomach the bitter flavour. And thus there are epics, poems, songs, novels and movies portraying different manifestations of love. Everyone has their version of it.

I for one fancied the idea of love. It had only one problem- it was perfect as an idea. When it transpired, it was nowhere near it.

First time I got introduced to love, it was only the want in me in getting to know that person. Turns out the person is just another soul in search of his own understanding of love. We parted ways in search of our so-called love. Then came along a self-acclaimed “love-expert” who started preaching about love and its rules. I was thoroughly monitored to adhering it. I had to escape before his syllables of love choked me.

One fine day and I thought I found it. For once, it even came close to my idea of love. Irony is too obvious a word but I was definitely not his interpretation of Love. He had all the right to see me “just as a friend”. So I compromised with the friendship, once more induced to renounce the existence of love.

Despite of all the attempts to give up the pursuit, it trailed along. Today, I am confronting it yet again. I have given up the endeavour to evaluate it with the idea I have. I am simply letting it trickle. For the first time, I am consenting to what is being presented to me. I am amazed at the positive tenor “we” have achieved. I cannot force him with my idea of love just because he lets me be “me”. I am letting my idea elapse, swallowing hard to let it die. It will take long i know but it will gradually fade away.

Will this work for long is the question. More so, is it love is the bigger interrogation that needs to be answered. Should this be my interpretation of love? Does love in its real sense even exist? Oh the much exploited word!

Photo courtesy: Google image

The night with the old man

June, 2009: Sydney

The night with the old man

I hate waiting. Every sensible person does but the odium I have for waiting is unusually at its crest.

That night, I had to do just that- wait for my bus to arrive. It is usually on time. What more, it isn’t this cold and freezing either.

Remember how Murphy stressed that law of his on things that can go wrong “will go wrong”? Well I never argued his point but hey, I didn’t need to be convinced either. Having to fight biting cold out in the dark, on a day I chose to wear just a tee, hungry and tired, waiting for the bus that never arrived. Murphy!!!!!!!!!!

My watch beamed past midnight. The Central station was deserted and why not? It was time for normal people to go to bed. As for me, the gracious act of procrastination I embraced left me with my assignments until the eleventh hour. And so I exited my university late. I shot over hundred glances at the bend far end, hopeful a bus would appear anytime soon.

Well it never did. Instead, after what seemed like decades, an old man carrying a rucksack came into view. He sauntered around before taking a spot near me. I quickly animated a smile and turned back, dodging any possibility of having a conversation with him.

From his fluffy grey hair, tanned and wrinkled face I deduced he must have crossed 50. His shoes and pants were soiled so he must be working for a construction. Breaking the silence after every interval, he coughed. Must be smoking, I told myself.

As my hair stood in an attempt to defy cold, forming goose bumps, I clutched myself hard. I gritted restlessly, more so because of cold. May be I should just give up the wait. So I geared to look for a cab. A rustle beside me stopped me from picking up my bag.

I looked up and the old man loomed in front of me. He was much older than I thought. While I was trying to find my voice to ask what he wanted, confronted by this abrupt encroachment, he slipped his coat off him and lifted it in front of my face.

“This will keep you warm until the bus comes,” a strong native accent echoed in my head.
It caught me off guard but I was quick to refuse, sounding very nervous. After an awkward silence, I managed to thank him for his gesture. For another minute he kept insisting on taking the coat and I kept refusing it. Inside my mind, guilt spawned remembering the shameless self-sympathy and hostility I displayed.

After the man put on his coat back, he took his spot, and coughed. I was dazed by the thought of a stranger offering his coat and not minding the piercing breeze himself. I was touched.

I couldn’t help but start a conversation thanking him all over again. In next 15 minutes, I learned the man lived a hard life, deprived of family and love, surviving on a minimum. He had never been to a school, did not have bank account on his name, and lived in hundred different places trying to make ends meet.

“Life is what you live out of what you have so I never felt poor,” he said, flashing a yellow teethed grin towards me. A lump formed in my throat and was too choked to say anything.

At that instant, a bus came roaring in and screeched stop in front of us. Before boarding the bus, I turned back to the man and thanked him for the last time. He smiled back. As the bus started moving, I was asking myself, is that what people call the “heart of gold?”

I don’t mind waiting anymore. Who knows what might happen?

Love Happens!

I was consoling myself for having to be alone on a Valentine’s Day. I boarded the train with a weighty feeling, having walked past numerous flower shops and countless lovers cherishing the day. You can say I was envious. Had it not been for my flat mate, I wouldn’t have stepped outside my room.

As I watched out the window of the train, cursing the operator for being unusually slow on this particular day, a young couple stood across, bidding farewell to each-other. Oh, the day meant so much for them. I could sense it. No exaggeration but I could even feel the warmth of their affection.

As the announcement was made to shut the door, the lovers parted. Interestingly, the girl took the seat in front of me. She clutched the bunch of red rose close to her. The boy bent against the window and waved goodbye until the train moved. It couldn’t get more romantic. I was glaring at the entire act, without a tinge of guilt.

I was about to go back to my self-sympathy thoughts when I noticed something that sent shivers down my spine. The girl was crying! She gripped the roses even closer to her and shed tears on it. For all the reason in the world, I knew it was “love”. It does exist. How fortunate the girl was to be in love. To feel its beautiful pain. To be so sentimental about someone that it was intolerable to part from him. Love actually happened.

That night I went to bed with an overwhelming sensation. So what if I didn’t have a Valentine. This time it happened to someone else, some other time it will be me. Some other time I will get to feel it. And I closed my eyes to dream on…
(NOTE: I wrote the article two days later but felt hesitant to post it. Maybe it will just be a dream. But again, who can stop me from dreaming…)

A letter to a daughter

For Tashi Choden. Age-9.

Dear Daughter,
I want to thank you so much for coming into my life.
Thank you for showing me the real beauty - the fact that it is hidden in small details of life.
Thank you for helping me set out the priorities of life before it was too late.
For making me understand the values of innocence and purity.
Thank you so much for being such a wonderful teacher.
For teaching me the language of adversity and the wisdom that came along.
Of welcoming the wisdom and adorning it to the armour that would shield us in difficult times.
For lessons on enduring the hardship and emerging as a winner.
For enlightening me on the essence of living. Of acknowledging relationships and cherishing it.
Thank you so much for making me realise what being a mother meant- a manifestation of kindness and compassion
Of all, thank you so much for giving me a new life.

Grand Entrance!

January 3, 2009. I left my family and ventured in pursuit of knowledge and experience.

I remember my mother watching me, her eyes wet with tears. My father didn’t say a word but his stern face carried traces of sadness. My eight year old daughter stood gazing. The moment lives as vivid in my mind today.

More than once I thought life was too short to stay away from them.

Yet human greed beseech everyone in crave of something. Mine was to explore and learn. I was off to Sydney.

Lhakey and Tashey, two people i have grown to trust, volunteered to drive me to the airport. My younger sister, Sangay, whose patience countered my restlessness well, accompanied us.

The one hour journey was all about reminiscing of gone days. My parents never denied my endless demands, never said no to my ideas. I encountered many good people in my life and some proved their friendship beyond doubt. My family and friends became my strength.

Separation from them, churned with excitement of entering a different world created a different feeling in my heart.

I reached the airport only to find that my travel agent had messed up with my tickets and I had to wait for two more days for my flight.

The idea of staying back, even if it was for a short moment, only encouraged me to welcome the blunder of the travel agent but at the same time, the thought of catching a connecting flight to Sydney from Bangkok exactly two days later made my stomach flip.

While the three escorts waited in the car, a tall lady ushered me to her office and asked me to wait while she checked the possibility of rescheduling the flight. She returned soon to tell me that the flight was full. I waited in vain hope to arrange a ticket for the next day.

I could hear the ground staffs running around, preparing the aircraft bound to take off soon. The flight I thought I was supposed to fly in.

A slightly younger looking woman sat next to me and started counting the boarding passes. The phone on the table rang. I easily understood the phone was from the in-flight crew, crosschecking the final details. I waited on and the lady who shepherd me inside kept assuring that she would lend a helping hand as soon as she was done with the current flight.

I overheard officials conversing and the flight was all set to fly. The clock on the wall had already ticked passed the takeoff time.

I was lost in confusion and a bit of worry when a phone ring jerked me to the present. The woman picked it up, uttered several words and look at me. I felt uncomfortable. She hung up the phone and said, “We had counted an infant for a seat by mistake. Would you like to go in this flight?” Before I could answer, she exclaimed, “hurry!”

In a split of second, I called my friends to get my luggage up till the entrance and bid them quick goodbye. The airport was empty. The scanner machines were being restarted. The lady was running after me with forms, asking me to fill up the details while at the same time she inquired for immigration officials.

While I hurried for the security formalities, she completed my boarding procedures. Both of us were running. When I finally exited the airport and ran towards to aircraft, I heard her say “good luck”.

From down below I could see the aircraft opening its door for me. I climbed the stairs and was greeted by a smiling steward on the door followed by over hundred pairs of eyes staring at me. Believe me, I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger emerging from thick smoke in the background in slow motion.

The moment I got seated, the pilot announced for the flight to “finally take off”. A realisation that I was finally going away hit me hard and I couldn’t stop the tears flowing from my eyes.

P.S. You have heard of people making busses and trains wait for them. I had an aircraft waiting for me. If I ever get to meet the lady again, I would like to thank her - for making the start of my journey very special.

writing....

I would like to thank those who invented computer and Internet.

Being a female and therefore biologically designed to get excited about every little incident, I developed the practice of putting my experiences into words. Keeping a diary was the best way to do it. High school and college day activities went down into those pages becoming a recorded memoir- of my own.

After graduation I made the only right decision in my life by becoming a print journalist. Being a journalist in Bhutan entails traveling long distances to hunt for stories. As such, a genuine writing interest, an unfaltering determination and good alcohol consumption capacity are crucial requirements. I am definitely good at the last one.

Writing for the newspaper and writing my personal accounts emerged as two different tasks. One I wrote for my readers, the other I wrote for myself. Over the period of three years as a journalist, in chase of articles, I have visited best and worst places, walked for days, met people of all sort, slept in sheds, laughed and cried with my interviewees.

Every day was a new day. Living overwhelming experiences and meeting inspiring people set me into new level of realisation. I learned to appreciate and find goodness in simple facts of life. All these kept my fondness for writing alive.

I love carrying a pen and a note book wherever I go. It not only makes others take me seriously, it has helped me earn my bread and butter. It still does. Having befriended for so long, I cannot imagine the idea of thrusting it aside. Yet, I have to act timely.

Therefore, here I am maintaining a blog of my own. And realising how computer and Internet facilities have augmented the convenience of writing and documenting write-ups, I couldn’t help thanking those who invented it.