Helpless Ukraine!

A father wearing a smile for his child

Tho’ scared of the lumbering tanks 

A woman offering sunflower seeds 

Curse-praying for enemy ranks.

As we hide from COVID-19

Ukrainians aren’t safe at home.

We live in an unfair world

There’s no safety for some!

A lone soldier guarding an island

Holding an old rifle.

Crushed by the marauding Rus

Beneath a tank, so trifle. 

As we transition to Green 

People are crying

As we wait for our booster dose

Ukrainians are dying. 

A soldier blowing himself up

To stymie an enemy advance

When neighbours fail & betray you

Your survival is perchance!

As countries count their deaths from COVID

There’s no tally for Russia’s kills.

For a piece of land, that isn’t theirs

Oh, what a horrific deal!

Neither lockdown, nor quarantine

No intensive care;

The vaccine doesn’t work

As people are shot & snared!

Zelenskyy begs for help

As friends betray Ukraine.

‘I am alone’, cries the President

Sanctions, alas, don’t deter Putin!

Sanctions couldn’t save the mother

Who died, her baby on her breast

Wish the UN could protect the many

Waiting to be laid to rest!

A mother’s last words reverberates

As we watch on television; 

‘Chernobyl is leaking, the bridge is gone

Russians have entered Kyiv

Stay safe, my son’!

Locked Down Thoughts

Tears are very loyal

They never flow without your bid

Let them cascade

After-all, what’s their purpose

Inside those lids?

Tell the moon to sleep

For the morn has dawned.

Take rest and refresh

To rise, the next night again.

Anger is prodigal

It doesn’t heed your say

Wrap it in your arms

It does nothing

Except, alas, betray!

Other’s salary & own face

They say, we always rejoice

Better earn your own money

But with your face,

Do you really have a choice?

Remind the stones not to build

But lie by the riverbed.

Tell the mason not to laze

But, build the stones instead.

Dreams can be dangerous

Rather live in the now.

Although yesterday’s dream

May not be today’s realm

Life continues somehow!

Locked Down With Pumpkins

Lucidly, I saw last night in my dream

I was having pumpkin soup with cream!

I caught hold of my wife’s serving hand

And semi-consciously began to scream!

 

Pumpkin with gravy

Pumpkin in stew

Cute green pumpkins

Some are yellowish in hue.

 

Ever since the start of the lockdown in town

It has always been pumpkin - green and brown.

No other veggies are available around

Making my son and me always frown.

 

Pumpkin from my neighbours

Pumpkin from my niece

Pumpkin from upstairs Sonam

Pumpkin also from my sis!

 

We have pumpkin in the fridge of various kind

There’s no corner where pumpkin you can’t find.

Three pumpkins lie next to each other on the table

There is even one on the verandah, near the cable!

 

Pumpkin with potato

Pumpkin with whey

Pumpkin sliced and done in oil

Often cooked the local Bhutanese way!

 

Yesterday, I bought some green corns, you see

In the mid-afternoon at three

With Nu. 500 worth of green maize, with glee

The seller gave me half a pumpkin - for free!

Home Delivery and Crumbled Trust

Hard times call for innovative measures. In the 21^st century, such measures would mean riding on the latest technology. Brett King and Elon Musk wouldn’t let you believe otherwise, under their First Principle. Thanks to COVID-19, everything has gone online.

It was 11:30 am on the 3^rd of May 2020, the year of the Masculine Rat.

I peeped out of the peephole of the main door at my residence at Changedaphu, Thimphu. Two young boys were peeping in. Our eyes met in between.

I opened the door, for it had already been half a minute since the boys had pushed the doorbell. Talking of doorbells, the one at my brother’s place at the Doctor’s Colony, sings a complete nursery rhyme before no one opens the door. Mine is a conventional one that goes ‘ting ling…’, or whatever depending on how sounds are conceptualized in different languages. Or else why should a Nepali hear a cockerel sing, ‘Kukhuri kaa...’ and a British as ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’?

The boys were there. By now, they were leaning against my door. When I opened the door, one of them stumbled to nearly hug me.

There was no introduction. No niceties. Younger of the two boys flashed an A4 size paper in front of me. ‘Uncle, we will deliver fruit, vegetable and grocery to you.’

I didn’t know if it was an offer or a threat. Confused, I looked at both the boys together. Then I understood their mission.

I quickly exchanged roles and explained to them.  

‘You are starting an enterprise that will home deliver grocery. Delivery will be free of charges. The price rates for your veggies and nuts will be very cheap. Right?’, I surmised.

The older of the two boys smiled at me. He had copper teeth, not because of any dental procedure, but an outcome of his apparent over indulgence in doma (betel-nut and betel leaf chewed with a dash of lime).  He must have thought, ‘here is a man who understands our purpose...’

The boys asked me for my name and number. I gave them my official visiting card.

‘Sir, you can order anything in this list; we will deliver’.

In less than two minutes, I became a sir from an uncle.

Honorifics are important in our society.

A few years ago, one day a retired Dasho was buying green grocery at the Centenary Farmer’s Market, when he stopped by a shop and bought quite a few things from a young farmer woman.

Once done, he asked the woman, ‘how much is it…?’

‘Five hundred Ngultrum, Bajay (Bajay is a Nepali word used to address someone who is perceived as grandfatherly)’, the woman replied in good faith.

Dasho got furious. He had just retired from one of the most conspicuous positions in the country – Royal Advisory Counsellor. He was used to being addressed as Dasho. And he considered himself still young to be addressed as ‘Bajay’. He emptied the purchases he had made and left the shop. ‘Your father’s a Bajay ...’, he was heard muttering as he left.

As a long-time entrepreneurship facilitator and trainer, I take it upon me to offer free advice whenever I meet someone venturing out to make a living.

‘There are so many gas delivery firms on Facebook. But no one responds when we need a cylinder. It is very difficult to rely on these people.’

I told a short story. The boys understood.

‘You can trust us’, one of the boys said. I nodded and wished them luck. They ran down the staircase to ring another doorbell.

Later that afternoon, I went out on my regular walk with my wife. As we were about to cross the car park, a corner of my left eye saw a piece of paper with my office’s logo. I stepped forward and picked up the paper. It had been freshly crushed and thrown. I was reading my own business card. It was obvious, the boys had thrown away my card on their way out.

Can I trust these boys to deliver my grocery? What has a business card got to do with home delivery?

Virus Diplomacy and Allied Tales

1.   The Happy Bad News

It was 6 O’ clock in the morning of March 6 2020, when I read the Prime Minister’s press release. A 76-year American tourist had tested positive for COVID 19. The first in Bhutan. Schools and institutes were ordered close. My son who was squirming to wake up for school went back to his adolescent snores. His mother, who had already shut down the alarm clock twice, had never felt happier.

But the tiding was anything but happy. Since December Wuhan had been re-christened and it had already transformed from an oriental malady into a worldwide menace, hitting even the white world hard.

I reached office at my usual - a little before eight - time. Messages started pouring into my WhatsApp and SMS. ‘Is it a holiday, chief?’, asked many. ‘How I wish, it was’, I said to myself. It was not. Only schools and institutes were closed. 

2.   Hand Sanitizer

Soon after, the frenzy for face masks and hand sanitizers began. The first day, people walked around like zombies and half-batmen. You didn’t have to greet anyone, for you wouldn’t recognize anyone!

It was crazier with hand sanitizers. Anything that smelled a bit like alcohol sold like the proverbial hot cake. Within the next day, Thimphu ran out of hand sanitizers; even the duplicate ones with less than 60% alcohol were taken.

Our government thought quickly. Hand sanitizers were concocted from spirit, glycerin and lemon grass. With large coloured drums, Bhutan's Guardians of Peace went around town distributing the propitious liquid. People flocked to the Centenary Farmer’s Market and Norzin lam, empty bottles in hand, to receive their 100 ml. Many didn’t know what to do with the liquid. There were rumours that a couple of elderly people at the Market drank it. They thought it was potion for the virus!

‘Hello, Phuntsho’, I called my office colleague. ‘Can you go with a large jerry can and get some for our office?’. He obliged. The volunteers would not issue bulk quantities. Phuntsho posted the empty can on WhatsApp.

Necessity is the mother of invention. Soon people were looking for spirit, glycerin and lemon grass. Word went around that the virus was scared of alcohol – 60% to be precise. That was interesting!  Bhutanese in general are not scared of alcohol. 

Offices started making their own sanitizer. Whether it actually sanitized or not, did not matter. If it was high on lemon grass, you smelled good. However, when the spirit was more, you smelled like a half-drunk loafer. The Indian spirit appeared to work on the Chinese virus.  

3.   Baby Not Mother Virus

One of the early days of the virus, I called my eldest sister, a mother figure, at Neoly. ‘Hello Didi, how are you?’, I enquired. She slowly appeared in the corner of her newly bought smartphone and grinned, as we Messengered for ten minutes.

‘Kanchha, people are talking about this corola virus. What is this? If it is a corolee and not a mau, it should be fine’, she tried to reason with me. (In Nepali corolee refers to a young cow and mau means mother).

The villagers thought it was a baby virus, so why all the fuss! It was not a mother.

4.   Atithi Devo Bhava (Guests are Godly)

Meanwhile, everyone started talking about the Index American. Even with my fairly good English, I didn’t understand why the septuagenarian should be referred to as the Index. I googled. Index case or zero case refers to the first documented patient in an epidemic. If so, the American was indeed Index - tall, burly and the first COVID 19 case in Bhutan!

People waited for updates on his condition. Some out of unfounded fear that the virus might spread faster if he kicked the bucket. Most out of genuine concerns. After-all, he was our guest and guests are god sent, although this one came infected.  Fortunately, he survived; enough for his worldly wealth to come and fly him back.

The Partner remained. Everyone called her Partner (with a capital P). Even the local FM referred to her simply as ‘the Partner’.  After-all she was the Partner of the Index COVID 9 case.

She stayed back. Nay, she was kept back and quarantined! She tested negative until after her fortnight of quarantine. The American legacy continued.

‘Where else did she go?’ The touch points and touch point tracing were playing out like treasure hunt. Her footprints began to matter!

One day, I was walking down to my dusty garage when I overheard a neighbourhood teenager negotiating with his mom. He wanted to go for his usual basketball dunks. His mother wasn’t allowing him. Then he asked her cheekily, yet seriously, ‘did the Partner even go to the basketball court?’

Never since Sherlock Homes have human footprints been so carefully traced and documented.

5.   Small world

The world has never felt so small. Whether you are a Japanese, American, African or a simple Bhutanese, the fear of survival today is the same. COVID19. Even the calm elderly Prince Charles has not been spared.

While physical distancing and social distancing matter in order to contain the virus, the vastness and distance between the continents do not! It is unfortunately the same everywhere. The little Italian girl losing her muscles to the virus, staring from Facebook or the burly Chinese who has conquered it. Both typify the COVID19 world.  

6.   Virus Diplomacy

In between, Prime Minister Modi decides to organize a video conference of the SAARC leaders. It was an opportunity for him to demonstrate good leadership. All the countries participated. Even Pakistan came online, although they chose to ‘send’ their junior health minister. Our PM Dr. Lotay participated with his usual grace and eloquence.

Felt even more proud when Bhutan was the first to respond to PM Modi’s call for the SAARC Emergency Fund. The pride was in the giving and not in the amount. The pride was in the quality of our response, not the quantity!

7.   All is Well That Ends Well

Last weekend our King appeared on television. He looked a bit worried. His usual concern for the country and people was evident in his slight frown. With his usual grace and poise, he advised us to remain calm and vigilant. He reminded us that in order to be collectively efficient, we need to be individually responsible.

Goose hairs sprung through my thin hands, when HM said, ‘we must not lose a single Bhutanese to the virus’. The royal resolve resonated through my living room into the thin, yet pristine Thimphu air. I said a quick prayer, ‘we hope the virus will spare us; should it not, we are prepared, what with the leaders we have!’

Meanwhile, our Partner continues to do well. She is still asymptomatic! Let me google what that means!

My Love Affairs With Karisma!

Foreword: During the last four to six months, many of my friends have reminded me that I have stopped blogging. These friends are quite a few to name. Then one afternoon, Rajesh Kafley Bhai trooped into my office with his complete family – a wife, a son and a daughter. Only missing was his dog! Despite some age gap, Rajesh and I have become near friends. He even offered to host me at his place in Bangkok, the next time I am passing through!

‘Daju, why have you stopped writing? asked Rajesh. That reignited my passion for writing. I am also grateful to my many ‘followers’ for reading and liking my musings. My friends Madan and Bhawana even print and share my stories with their colleagues at WWF. They told me so!

Here is my new story. Sorry for the delay.   

I first met Tara about two decades ago. Perhaps a little earlier than that. Tara was one of the trainees in a skills development programme I was coordinating in the nineties. We met in the training halls of Changzamtog Industrial Service Centre, Thimphu. Tara and I are of about the same age. As village elders of yore put it, Tara and I have probably worn out the same number of half pants. Tara is as old as Dolma Enterprise in Thimphu.

One of the few things that has continued in the same place for decades, Dolma Enterprise is the oldest firms retailing household white goods in Thimphu.

By the time our second son was due, my wife and I decided to buy a washing machine. To a mid-level civil servant, anything that cost more than a few thousand ngultrums was expensive. My take-home salary at the turn of the 21^st century was hardly ten grands. So, affording a luxury that was equivalent to my entire monthly salary was a big deal!

When my wife was ready with our second son, I had not yet recovered from the heavy ‘nappy laundering’ from the upbringing of my elder son. Unlike many civil servants, we didn’t have the luxury of our parents staying with us and babysitting their grandchildren.

Those were the days of reusable nappies (simply thangna). Disposables such as Huggies, Poko Pants, etc. were not readily available and expensive in Bhutan. So, most parents of my time and income used soft cotton clothes as reusable nappies. I always tell my colleagues that most (if not every) things in life are relative. There is always someone who is better off, worse off, taller, shorter, more handsome, less smart, etc. than you! Relative to his dad, who used ‘bhatay ko paat’ (broad leaves of a rough hardy plant) for post-excretion cleaning, my elder son used imported muslin to wipe his arse!

They say giving birth is one of the most painful things to do. When our elder son was born, my wife had fulfilled her obstetric responsibility. It was a partnership, after all! Thereafter, it was my duty to do the cooking, washing and laundering. I would be so tired and drenched by the end of each day that I would collapse on my bed over a bottle of beer. That’s until the little one woke up in the middle of the night. I didn’t have the mammary glands to feed the baby, but it was my accountability to maneuver the mommy breasts and put the tit(s) into my son’s mouth. My wife would be half awake!

Thus, when my wife dutifully delivered our second son in 2003 – I went into labour pains.  Not the biological pain, but the reliving of the physical pain of laundering, washing, cleaning, cooking and caring. The excitement of having a second son – so much valued in our partisan culture – was drowned in perceived tiredness.

One spring day in the year of the Ram, we decided to buy our first washing machine. A couple of months earlier, my sister-in-law had bought a Samsung Karisma. We followed suit and brought Karisma home riding on the back of a Maruti Van from Dolma. Tara installed the machine at the corner of our cave like bathroom, showed us how to balance the knobs and left. 

My Karisma

I soon realised that Karisma would not do what I had to do. The chocolatey, starchy poop that new born babies produce was not designed for Karisma’s delicate rumblings. I had to first remove the chocolate from the re-usable nappies and hand them over to Karisma to twist and turn them.

Between 2003 to end 2017 Karisma served us well. And I conveniently forgot Tara. I often met him in town or saw him on Facebook. But there was simply no need for us to meet. Winter of 2017-2018 was a momentous year for me. My seven-year-old in the making apartment was delivered and I had to move house. Changzamtog to Kala Bazar is hardly a kilometer, but Karisma’s old frame could not take the journey too well. Two days after moving in, I connected Karisma to her power line and twisted her knobs. She emitted grrrrr, a rusty sound and refused to work. 

‘Try opening and closing the door’, my wife advised me. At home, wives know everything, even if they have half the educational and external experiences of their worse-halves. Before I could digest her instructions, my wife was already behind me to check if I was following her advice.

‘Open the lid and close it, I said’, she reminded me. I did that and Karisma threw out about a litre of water from her exterior before ‘grrring’ to a stop.

I needed Tara. Where is he? I called up a young distant relative of mine, who once used to work with Tara at Dolma and asked for Tara’s number. Two days later, Tara came to my place with a heavy bag laden with mechanical tools and equipment. 

After twisting and turning the knobs in different combinations for about 15 minutes, Tara decided to open and peek into Karisma. Together, we wrestled Karisma to the floor upside down and Tara started his surgery. After about half an hour, Karisma was on her feet again. Tara poured some water into her, fiddled with her knobs and in a while, Karisma was working.  Again! My old mate of fourteen years was back to life. She is working to this day!

Tara is starting to grey. The thick bush of hair over his upper lips showed traces of salt and pepper. I thanked him and mPayed two thousand ngultrum into his Bhutan National Bank account. I knew I had been generous. He acknowledged it, finished the cup of ginger tea my wife had offered him and left.  In the background, we could hear Karisma swirling in the bathroom. She had a backlog of clothes to finish.

How much does Tara earn? Why has he not started something on his own? Is he happy? ‘Entrepreneurs are not born, they are bred’, a mantra I had picked up two decades ago as an entrepreneurship trainer, rang through my mind long after I closed the door after Tara.

Australian Dream of a Cabby

It is already past lunchtime when we reach the last car wash along the Thimphu-Babesa highway. After failing to find an empty car wash at Olarongchu, we head south along the expressway, peering into one car wash after another. There are about a dozen on the left side of the highway, but all are occupied and busy.

My co-brother decides to leave his car at the service centre and go home for lunch. ‘Bhai, please wash my car and park it properly. I will come and collect it by 3:00 pm’, he says, handing over the key of his Ford Ecosport to a burly boy with a squint in his left eye.

After we leave the car wash, we realize that we are a good five kilometers away from home. With no conveyance.  ‘No problem’, I said. ‘We will find plenty of taxis from here’.

We don’t have to wait long. A grey Suzuki WagonR with a young driver pulls up and looks at us expectantly. We are on the wrong side of the expressway, with a road divider in between. ‘But we want to go to Changedaphu’, said my co-brother, suggesting to the cabbie that we have to turnaround.

‘Las la’, he retorts in the usual politeness of Bhutanese cabbies. ‘But where is Changedaphu?’ he asks.

‘Kala Bazaar, near Azhi Building’, I jump in. The driver nods.

He doesn’t know Changedaphu, but knows Kala Bazar.  A certain part of Thimphu, above the Druk School Junction and leading towards Rinchen High School is popularly known as ‘Kala Bazar’. The moniker has its roots in the low shacks roofed with flattened bitumen drums occupied by daily wage workers from both within and outside the country. That was in the 70s to early 90s, but the name stuck.

My co-brother and I enter the cab. He gets into the back seat. As the paying passenger, I get into the front seat and face the driver. The taxi identity card issued by RSTA betrays some of his personal details. His name is Sangay Tshering. He lives in Dechencholing, a suburb of Thimphu. Physically, Sangay looks like an average Bhutanese cabbie. Slightly unkempt hair and mildly shabby. He has a set of brownish denture. Remnant of red ‘doma’ (doma, known as paan in the Indian sub-continent, is a potent mixture of areca nut and betel leaf with a dash of lime, chewed for its mild kick)  juice is drying up on the far corner of his small mouth. He doesn’t smile.

As it is a fairly long drive, we soon start chatting up. It begins with my co-brother observing, ‘your car is wobbling a bit. Either your tyres are too full or need to be refilled’, he opines. Sangay’s forehead squirms. There is silence for about a minute. Then Sangay decides to be a sport.

‘Perhaps, it is because my car is old’, he says. Then he shares that his cab is about eight years old. He bought a second hand cab.

Then I enquire, ‘business must be good?’

‘Well, it is only enough for rolling, sir’, he said. Sangay doesn’t mean that he uses the money he makes to roll around. He means that the money helps him make a decent living, but not too much to save.

‘I have been in this for six months only.  Getting a job is difficult these days, sir’, he continues.  

‘How far have you studied’, I ask. For a change, he ups his narrow shoulders and responds in a louder voice, ‘I am a university graduate’.

Sangay completed B.Com from the University of Bangalore a year ago. After failing to get a government job that he had always dreamed of, he decided to run a taxi.

‘I know it is very difficult. But doing a business is always better’, I comfort him. Then I look at him enquiringly. He understands my unspoken question.

‘If this doesn’t work, I am thinking of going to a third country for job’.

‘Dubai?’ I ask, perhaps undermining his intentions.

 ‘No, Australia, sir’, he responds.

‘But, I believe it is better to go to Australia with a partner. One studies (or pretends to do so), while the other works and earns’, I offer him the common refrain offered to wannabe Aussies.  

‘My wife is in Samtse’, Sangay informs us.

Sangay is married. His wife is completing her B.Ed from the Samtse College of Education. He tells us that they are already planning to apply for Australian study visa.

The ride from the car wash to near the Azhi building, Kala Bazar takes us about fifteen minutes. As the cab halts, I pay him his fare of Nu. 160.

‘All the best, brother’, my co-brother and I wish him well.

I know I have my story for the day!