12/05/2014

OF BEAUTIFUL DAY

It's misty day. So, obviously it's cold day. It's tough to get out of warm blanket and out my cozy room to start anything. But once out, I saw how mist makes weather beautiful.  As I already said, 'misty backdrop is compatible either with romance or horror. ' Just this realization made me glad. But, there were even more reasons to be happy for and get mad with excitement.

The moment I reached my friend's room after last practical submission, my mate therein, broke the news which drenched everyone with surprise and pride later on! Our previous seniors from forestry and agriculture, who all graduated last year - or last June to be exact - from here, had done very extremely excellent in the RCSC exams. Of course, their colourful results mean job assured but that is less an achievement to hold pride of compared to what they did collectively!

One of our graduates, Mr. Dawa Tashi,  B.Sc. Agriculture, came second topper with 72.09 % in technical category , after Tashi Gyelmo, 75.07% ,another acquaintance though not a graduate from here.

Moreover, in the technical category, maximum of my seniors could place themselves to the best, among top ten!

It isn't that I didn't expect such a wonderful performance from them. I just feared for them because it's most tough intra-specific battle for winning the limited jobs in government or other prestigious sectors and departments. When they appear victorious , securing not only jobs but also bagging the highest position among others, it's their triumph that I celebrate and would continue cherishing because I am their junior.

The day was so beautiful. I wish it come again.  Always. 

11/23/2014

RELATION

Without a reader, both poetry and poet are half complete. Reading is a medium, beautiful, that makes me an essential part of the two.

While reading Gibran two days ago, I came across a stanza which I highlighted on second reading with a sketch pen. I re-read and smiled. It related me somehow.

“ He is a solitary figure,
Robed in simplicity and kindness;
He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his inspiration,
And stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.”
‘The Poet’      ( Book 8:  A Tear And A Smile )

Though I remain mingled among my companions for most of the time, yet the final hour of the night reduce me to a lone individual, cut off from my friends;

And that I am simple, kindness is also my trait for I never knew to be a species of a high fashioned class;

It was and is the Nature only, my Mother dear, from whom I seek consolation and inspiration as well;

As poetry is a natural song of spontaneity, its birth waits for no proper time. So I remain wakeful every silent hour, alert, lest the beautiful examples of life pass me without my noticing

And aware, only when the weary mind is conceived of beautiful imageries and soothing sound of the perched train of words within me that the silent hours of benediction has been blessed. 

11/04/2014

WINTER HAS COME

W
inter has come because the days are cold here and the mornings and nights, unlike summer, are occupied by mist, making it a perfect setting to write of either a romantic or a horror story.

The humidity is comparatively lower than in summer, so, no much sweating. This could be one reason why people appear neat in winter.  But it could be also one reason why people bath less. Assure you, however, that I bathe daily unlike what I said. ;)

The Sun is also not so oppressive; it’s warm and mild and pleasant. Air conditioner had been switched off two weeks ago; it’s its resting time after the long dutiful working summer days. Because of these, the washings usually hung on balcony take longer to dry. In summer, the exhaust of AC, collectively with the intense summer heat, would dry those within few minutes. And now, for drying, those have to be taken on the terrace.

And once been to terrace, it’s from there, it’s difficult to make immediate return back to the room! The panoramic view the terrace provides of the spreading city and the distant horizon is just captivating. Especially at dawn and twilight: at dawn, the first rays of the sun, in endeavour to dress nearby tree canopies in its colour, resulting in peaceful blend of hue, dissipating mist giving way to bright daylight, early birds calling, and few travelers on the road make the environment just as the one I picture of tranquil and serene place. In twilight, orange setting sun rays bidding goodbyes to the things and places touched, mist developing out of thin air, loud praying of Muslim brethren, city lights and birds making back to their nests are what I love watching.


“The spring has done its flowering and taken leave.” The summer has done its heating and also taken leave. Even fall has done its shedding and gone. It’s only winter completely left of the year; coming then, freezing and snowing in the Himalayas and other cold regions of the globe. And resulting idea of family trips, office holidays, vacations and hiking are what makes me envious. That’s what I don’t like of winter. ;)  Jokes apart. Irrespective of thoughts of the natives and other residents here, in the northern Indian plain, though no snowing occurs here aside wintry breeze, the season is the much awaited, at least from me. 

10/20/2014

THE TWO SELVES

I have two selves: a sinner masquerading as a Human and a Hypocrite masked behind the veil of a brethren. Once I heard them in conversation:

Said the sinner, “How sad, in fact, it is to witness many slaughters still to this days. The selfish desires of these earthly occupants can never be satisfied even with the infinite provisions of the creator. If this race sustain, one day, the Earth will have enough people but the human will be extinct. “

Upon this, the hypocrite agreed: “It is, indeed, sad, brother. To covet the richness born without, they have even forgotten the path to the temple. And when seldom they appear before the temple to confess their sins, they, then, tend to forget their prayers. They will never be cleansed for their roots in the heaven are lost. They are a disgrace as creation before the creator. And soon, they’ll build the world to a void with empty worshipers.”

That night, I was served pork and I read prayers without a vision of the Lord.

10/02/2014

THE BROKEN WINGS

“I was eighteen years of age when love opened my eyes with its magic rays and touched my spirit for the first time with its fiery fingers, and Selma Karamy was the first woman who awakened my spirit with her beauty and led me into the garden of high affection, where days pass like dreams and nights like weddings.”

This is how “The Broken Wings” starts; the poetic novella of ten chapters consisting precise expressions of emotions and relations, and one of the finest works of Kahlil Gibran.
Everyone has his/her own first lovestory. It would be either sweet and accomplished or one-sided and unrequited or broken and miserable.  But successful relation that has led into marriage never makes a good lovestory – I observe – or even if it does, it never produces aching sentimental songs and sorrowful lyrics upon its recollection to one as does by the love that was intervened and ended so callously.

We remember our first love because it opens the bud of our maturity and measurement of the feeling is deepest then.  “ Every young man remembers his first love and tries to recapture that strange hour, the memory of which changes his deepest feeling and makes him so happy in spite of all the bitterness of its mystery. “

Set in the backdrop of corrupt Lebanon society during Gibran’s youth, The Broken Wings is the recount of the poet’s first love whom he loses not only to rapacious power holders in the town but also to the ultimate death.  

Selma Karamy is the woman “who taught me ( Gibran ) to worship beauty by the example of her own beauty and revealed to me the secret of love by her affection; she was the one who first sang to me the poetry of real life.” But fate turns against their love and Selma is forfeited by her father, Farris Effandi Karamy, in marriage to Mansour Bey Galib, the nephew of the Bishop, Bulos Galib.

Against her will, she is betrothed to the miser who hatched the proposal of marriage with a selfish motive of acquiring Selma’s inheritance as she’s the only successor of her father’s prosperous fortune. In solitude, the old man soon passes away, as wished by his fortune hunters, entrusting the poet to care his daughter as his own sister, but only to be soon followed by his daughter who gets rescued by her son – “born at dawn and died at dusk” – from the oppression she suffers miserably from her miserly husband.

The book ends, “As the grave digger disappeared behind the poplar trees, I couldn’t resist anymore, I dropped down on Selma’s grave and wept.” So did my heart, hearing the poet’s mourn over his precious loss, in the dead silence of the night. 

9/18/2014

ME AND MATHS

In retrospect, in elementary school, numbers and simple operations made mathematics my favourite subject because the basic concepts weren’t hard. The subject appeared charming. But the charm was short-lived and couldn’t enchant me more. The ascension in standard soon broke the spell; addition of strange algebras and complex equations made me a bad magician – making me unable to perform arithmetic tricks and ripping away the enthusiasm once the subject gave me. Even calculator proved it’s a fair weather friend, giving inaccurate answers and being inefficient. In fury, I smashed one, unable to tolerate its disloyalty.
A fair weather friend 
Left alone, I was compelled to take up Bio-science in my intermediate. However, it still didn’t leave me alone for I could sense its faint smell in chemistry and physics. Perhaps, it meant to cross my path again for it made its comeback in my current bachelor course. Only it hasn’t brought the long lost enthusiasm along with. And without this essential equipment, going along with maths is a tough journey. It's mandatory for me. Seeking or compelling interest is an only alternative left.

Luckily, I found an inspiration – a poem from the movie, Harold and Kumar: Escape from Guantanamo Bay. You may like it too. 

“The Square Root of Three”  ( A poem of Love )

I fear that I will always be
A lonely number like root three.
A three is all that’s good and right
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath a vicious square-root sign?
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick
With just some quick arithmetic.
I know I’ll never see the sun
As 1.7321
Such is my reality
A sad irrationality
When, hark,  just what is this I see?
Another square root of three
Has quietly come waltzing by
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer
Rejoicing as an integer;
We break free from our mortal bonds
And with a wave of magic wands
Our square-root signs become unglued
And love for me has been renewed.

I never knew the wonders of mathematics can be woven into a beautiful poetry. Love the poem. Math is really a subject magical and wonderful, isn’t it. ;-) 


9/03/2014

AN IRONY IN LOVING OTHER’S SONGS

If there is guilt being Bhutanese in me then it would be for loving hindi songs over my own country ones. This sets me thinking that I might have been some musician or lyricist or troubadour in ancient India because I have immense taste for the country’s vintage songs unlike to any other classics. As a Bhutanese, this aspect of me is totally an irony and of course, disgusting.

I cannot blame my parents for my liking to the neighbour country’s songs for they fed me enough and equal of both Bhutanese and Indian songs during my early childhood. In fact, my father was quite partial over the choice of songs I should listen to; he would refuse to change the radio station from BBS once Ap Dawpel begins with his hypnotising voice and magical dramnyen. He urged me to learn the indigenous musical instrument too. But I didn’t have the aptitude or the interest. My mother who being used to cinema in border town, used to bring in an Indian classic frequently and seldom hums herself. That just pleased my auditory sense.  And as I matured and grew aware as the country’s citizen, inevitably and eventually, I fell in for the hindi songs.

Kishor Kumar, Udit Narayan, Anu Malik, Asha Bhosle, Lata Mangeshkar are few who are into my knowledge as the singers and upon whose songs I feast usually. Regarding modern, I am little selective; I prefer sufi over other genres. And Rahat Fateh Ali Khan is my favourite. Proudly, I can complete couple of his songs. Due to these songs, I didn’t ( and don’t ) face communication gap here. It’s an incentive for being impartial in listening to any songs. On contrary, shame swallows me when I’d to admit I know only tits and bits – either head or tail – of own folk songs.


                                                               One of my favourites
Having admitted that, one may think I don’t have a sense of patriot and I’m disloyal to my homeland. Well. If research be done in this matter, it won’t be surprising to know the truth being brought to light revealing majority of youth swept away by western winds, few caught by Korean fever, some into Chinese and few like me and only fewer hooked back by country’s culture, with appetite for folk songs.

I impose myself, however, into learning and listening the songs because it’s identity; the proof of where I belong. And I’ll make sure I know a dozen at least by heart, soon.

Gospel songs are recent addition to my menu. I had begun to like it. But I assure you I am not influenced into Christianity. Perhaps, it’s only to mark my presence in a Christian college. It’ll be a souvenir.

But vintage songs remain unbeaten in my favourite list. And sufi as well. Sometimes, I really think hard that I reach the extent of insanity – my being as Mughol Emperor or Akbar himself in previous life, lying on the magnificent throne, watching beautiful damsels entertaining my court; their anklets tinkling in tune to the songs I love... Ah!.. Let’s stop it. This will be just an excuse for my loving Indian classics and sufi. 

8/31/2014

REFLECTION WITH JIM CARREY – THE BRUCE ALMIGHTY

Ever since I watched ‘The Mask’ – a satirical comedy about human nature – Jim Carrey became my favourite. He’s been my brother’s favourite too and it’s when he suggested me to watch the movie that I got one of my favourites in Hollywood. His popular movies include Ace Ventura series: ‘When nature calls’ and ‘The pet detective’, ‘Liar liar’ and ‘Bruce Almighty.’

                                     True.                                       
Born with genius talent of mimicking and stretching his elastic face into varied manifests of emotions and fluent speech that in itself is humour, laughter and applause are inevitable wherever and whenever the Jim Carrey appears. He is a synonym of comedy to me.

Several of his dramas, interviews, TV shows and movies uploaded in YouTube are bookmarked and when I get fed up with books, I switch on to his movies. They never fail to amuse me. Yesterday, I watched Bruce Almighty again. That was the third time.

                                       
I was much like Bruce; blaming God’s absence when I failed, that God has turned against me when I was sad and that He has totally abandoned me when sick. In fact, I even used to curse – as Bruce do – getting blasphemous when unable to tackle with the boundless irritations in life.  But Bruce Almighty teaches God is always with us and being sacrilegious over holy things only belittles us; God has given us equal power to seek solution to our own matters; we shouldn’t be too selfish so as to ask God’s attention to us only for He needs to attend to His other infinite children and creations. ‘Why bother God when we’ve power to solve our own problem’ is what I learned from the movie.

All his other movies I watched carry a serious message each, at least. ‘Liar Liar’ is about the impact of lying in family. The father (JC – Jim Carrey) – a lawyer (or liar) always makes excuses even to his only son, thereby not keeping his promises. Therefore, the son makes a wish that his father speak all truth on his birthday. Miraculously, though unable to lie, JC wins the case for his client – a divorcee – against a father, who then, gets ripped off his children. Realising his folly, JC then condemns he’s been living a selfish life. He realises the value of family unity. On he goes to reunite his almost broken family.

Trust him. :D
                                        
And ‘The Mask’, as I said, is of the human’s nature; part good and part bad personalities that every person carries. Whenever, the protagonist wears the cursed notorious mask, his concealed desires surface and he does what he thought of doing then. The movie could be the comical adaption of R.L. Stevenson’s gothic novel, ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.’

In The Mask. 
                                                           
If you watch the movie and read the novel, I am sure you can draw for yourself a best conclusion. 

Note: All pictures due Google. 

8/22/2014

THE BLUE UMBRELLA

The Blue Umbrella is a short and humorous novella set in the hills of Garhwal.”

Binya is a ten year old girl who lives with her little brother, Bijju, and mother. Her father had died when she’s just two, “but his passing had made no difference to their way of life.” From three tiny terraced fields on the side of the mountain, they produce enough to live on. They also own two cows – Neelu and Gori.

One day, she comes across a party of picnickers. A woman eyes on her necklace with a leopard’s claw. In exchange for it, Binya acquires a beautiful blue umbrella, woven of sky blue silk. Soon it becomes envy of the entire village including old Ram Bharosa ( Ram the Trustworthy ) who owns a tea shop on the Tehri road. He persuades Binya to sell him the umbrella. Binya refuses because she loves her umbrella. Unable to resist the greed to acquire the umbrella, Ram Bharosa tries various wicked means: luring Bijju and employing his minion – Rajaram – into stealing the umbrella.

When it becomes known to everyone that Rajaram tried to steal the Umbrella on behalf of Ram Bharosa, “Ram the Trustworthy” gets taunted to “ Trusty Umbrella Thief.” Ever since then, people avoid his shop. As result, his shop and he nearly dries up. But kind Binya breaks the stigma by sacrificing her lovely umbrella to the old man, on pretence of forgetting it on his shop:
Cover picture in Rupa publication.
 It contains 82 pages excluding author's note. 

“But I’m never in the sun or in the rain,” he said aloud.” Of what use is an umbrella to me?”.........

He wasn’t used to running, but he caught up with her, held out the umbrella, saying,” You forgot it – the umbrella!”

In that moment it belonged to both of them.”

Ram Bharosa gifts a bear’s claw pendant having thin silver chain to Binya.

The Blue Umbrella is a story of gift, greed and sacrifice. Binya exchanges/sacrifices her leopard’s claw pendant to acquire The Blue Umbrella. Greed ruins Ram Bharosa. But Binya’s gift changes Ram Bharosa totally – from greedy to a kind person ( round character J ).

The Blue Umbrella is a realistic fable for children but the simple yet witty language of the story teller – Ruskin Bond – makes it a story to be read by all ages. 

8/16/2014

AWARD WINNING BOOKS SET IN INDIA

India was once a constant victim of foreign ambitions.The discovery of sea route to the subcontinent by Dom Vasco da Gama let several other French, British and Europeans follow him. They settled there and spread throughout the subcontinent – with or without the permission of the natives. It was colonization. Colonization was hard upon the Indians because the colonizers mined the country’s resources, forced the natives for labour and imposed unbearable laws. Looking back to the time, it’s tyranny. Imperialism. On contrary, it’s quite a blessing in disguise: because of those, India makes important appearances in the history of mankind, war, religion, evolution, revolution, civilization and of literature.

It’s no wonder India is based as setting in the books of many great writers – both classic and contemporary. Rabindranath Tagore was an Indian. Ruskin Bond, an Anglo-Indian, writes in the backdrop of mountains and hills where his childhood was and where he lives. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle made three characters Indian in “The Sign of Four” excluding Jonathan Small as foreigner to India. And in the journey “Around the World in Eighty Days”, Phileas Fogg and Passepartout save a young widow from Allahabad who later gets married to the protagonist. In fact, the cause of the journey was: “Fogg gets involved in an argument over an article in The Daily Telegraph stating that with the opening of new railway section in India, it’s now possible to travel around the world in eighty days. He accepts the wager of £20,000 from his club members, which he’ll receive if he makes around the world in eighty days.”

When we read those books, it’s the celebration of India. And what should be said of the country when some of the books and the writers win prestigious international awards and prizes, mainly due to her?

And I, even as an ordinary reader, take pride in possessing a copy of such books. Three award winning books I have are:

1.The Room on the Roof. – Ruskin Bond.

Written when the author was just seventeen, the novel is about Rusty, a boy, who ill-treated by his guardian, escapes into the bazaar of Dehradun and mingles with new friends. Altogether, the story of adolescence. It won John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957.

2.Life of Pi. – Yann Martel.

The story of a shipwreck survivor, a sixteen year old boy – Piscine Molitor Patel ( teased as Pi ) – who was left to share a boat with another carnivorous survivor – a Royal Bengal tiger. It centres on the theme of friendship, courage, religion and belief ( or believes.) The story starts in Pondicherry, travels across Pacific Ocean and ends in Mexico. This book won Yann Martel The Man Booker Prize. It’s also adapted into a movie. Even as a movie, it was nominated for few Oscar categories.

3. Kim – Rudyard Kipling

( I am amidst the book.)  Set in the northern India, this one again is the story of an orphan whose father happens to be an Irish soldier. He adopts a Tibetan Lama as his master and the two sets to seek the Lama’s ‘The River of the Arrow.’ This book directly and solely didn’t win the Nobel Prize to the Kipling. But it was after its publication that he became the winner as writes Ruskin Bond in Introduction of the latest “Kim” publication:

“Three years after Kim was published, Kipling received the Nobel Prize. India has for the first time become a major theme in English literature and for that we are indebted to him.”

8/14/2014

WHERE IS THE COIN?

I
ndian shopkeepers are very reasonable in charging the prices they fix on their articles. And other than bargaining, the customer need not bother about the remaining balance the seller owe him/her; be it one or four, they return the balance amount anyhow. Indians are precisely calculating mathematicians.


Shopping in India is much comfortable than in Bhutan. In India, whether the price is odd or even, one need not worry about the change if the note of higher denomination is paid. The role of smaller paper notes and coins are still alive here. In Bhutan, chocolates and other articles of little value make up the smaller balance the shopkeeper owe the buyer. This has become a rigid trend in shopping and Bhutanese shopkeepers are omniscient: they always give either matches or chocolates or chewing gums for the remaining balance. If you dare demand the exact amount back then the omniscient people will obviously call you a miser.

Many commercial goods in Bhutan have prices in multiples of five with least starting from the number. If the supposed price is odd, then the shopkeeper won’t mind taking trouble to beautify the articles with newer price tag and re-fix the rate. One thing they make sure – the price be paid without involving the coins.

Bhutanese coins are extinct. They might be among the offerings in the temples or rusted on the ground or among the fossils of dinosaurs. Who knows? If you happen to possess one, preserve it! And sell it either to an antique dealer or museum authorities. Becoming millionaire is propitious if you've a dozen at least.


The coins are here. But they are all Indian's.

Even if the coins are resuscitated, it will never find use now as it used to decades ago because hypocrisy has eaten consciousness of every modern Bhutanese and have taken control of their conscience: using coin belittles them. But it’s also not usual that we get to count dollars.


I’m sure every one of us is familiar with the poem saying little grains of sand make pleasant land. Of course, it’s an elementary poetry. Who won’t know? Yet we forget – or neglect – what it conveys actually. The slack cost us our dear coins. I wonder whether we, Bhutanese, really care it’s one that makes hundred.

We only keep measuring our pity economy against the formidable Indian progress. We are incompetent. India outraces us because they count their coins. They’ve mastered the fact; building palace requires the collection of pebbles first. 

8/10/2014

I AM A BUDDHIST

There are two reasons for me being Buddhist: one; I was born a Buddhist and two; I follow the principles of Buddha. 

A Buddhist ought to be sincere in following the teachings of Buddha. And I do it. Except I am a non-veg; it’s the only drawback I have as a Buddhist. But to acquire the diet, I don’t kill. 

As a Buddhist, I care no difference between religions, let alone of looking down or ostracizing and claiming superiority of my belief over others. It’s the differences that man tries to shed between their creeds which ultimately divide themselves into sections of otherwise one population. Kahlil Gibran wrote: “ You’re my brother and I love you. I love you worshiping in your church, kneeling in your temple, and praying in your mosque. You and I and all are children of one religion, for the varied paths of religion are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme being, extended to all, offering completeness of spirit to all, anxious to receive all.”

When man focus and gets absorbed much in the differences, it’s then they become fanatic and comes up with malicious measures to exercise supremacy of one over the other, posing risk to everything, causing threat to humanity at large. 

I don’t know the current Buddhist population in the world or that of other religions either. I don’t even like to know. I am content in being sure of myself as a Buddhist and that I shouldn’t compare religions; comparison intends only one thing – persuasion – invitation or compulsion into a religion with larger population. 

I learned – as a Buddhist – to revere no barrier erect between religions or to respect the wall of the sort. Segregation is ugly. Separation is bad. 

Often times, many in general society still avoid relation because of the difference in their religions. They are preconceived with the idea one should be confined within one’s own creed. And mixing – not conversion – is betrayal; sin. 

My teacher married a Christian. They even have a child now. This added to my knowledge that religion cannot be a barrier in our population. It’s man’s narrow mind that is not fitting on the wide road of humanity. The cataract of ignorance tends to blind those from seeing the truth. 

Similarly, I also won’t retreat from marrying woman of other caste and creed, if I happen to fall for one. Marriage won’t change me. I would remain a Buddhist because Buddhist blood flows in my veins. You may think what would become of my children then. Well, as my teacher, I’ll provide them the freedom to choose their own religion. But before, I’ll teach them all religions can be one. And that I am a Buddhist. 


8/05/2014

BOOKS

Following are the books I bought from online store, flipkart. I received it yesterday only. And this month is all going to be theirs. As I haven’t started reading yet, I will read to you what’s written on the back cover of the books ( for you may like them too ) :

1.Sonnets – William Shakespeare 

“ First published in 1609, the 154 sonnets refer cryptically to the poet’s relations with various persons particularly a handsome young man, a dark woman, and a rival poet. As the sequence of sonnets stands, it roughly falls into two sections: 1-126 are concerned mainly with the youth and 127-154 mainly with the mistress. 

The poems are characterised by the expression of strong feeling within an exquisitely controlled artistic form, and the themes are as varied as can be, for William Wordsworth in a sonnet about sonnets thought: ‘with this key / Shakespeare unlocked his heart’. The poems to the youth dwell on the great Renaissance themes of friendship, love, death, change and immortality and the relationship of the poet’s art to all these, while those on the ‘Dark Lady’ are concerned with the poet’s relationship with his mistress.”

2.THE GREAT WORKS OF KHALIL GIBRAN

“Khalil Gibran ( January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931 ) was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer. Born in the town of Bsharri in modern-day Lebanon, as a young man he immigrated with his family to the United States and began his literary career. 

He is chiefly known in the English-speaking world for his 1923 book “The Prophet”, an early example of inspirational fiction including a series of philosophical essays written in poetic English prose. The book sold well despite cool critical reception, and became extremely popular in the 1960s counterculture. Khalil Gibran is the third best-selling writer of all time, behind Shakespeare and Lao-Tzu.”

3.On the Origin of Species – Charles Darwin


“Before Charles Darwin presented his revolutionary insights into the theory of evolution, it was believed that each species came to life individually and maintained its original form. He disputed this and proved that the law of nature was evolution – each living being descended from the common ancestors, and used ‘natural selection’ to survive in changing environments. His findings challenged the deeply held belief in divine creation and permanently transformed our understanding of the world. 

When it was first published in 1859, On the Origin of Species triggered one of the fiercest debates between science and religion in the history of the world, one that still rages. Today, more than a century and a half after its publication, it continues to exercise a tremendous influence in the fields of philosophy, history, theology and economics.”

4.THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY – OSCAR WILDE
The extract of this book is taken from the introductory notes from within the book because the back cover, unlike the rest above, contains no summary but the publishing house’s advertisement.


“The picture of Dorian Gray arrived in prim Victorian England in 1891 like a naked man at tea party, and was just about as well received. The novel tells the story of Dorian, a beautiful young man who remains eerily unmarked by age and excess, while, hidden away from view, his painted portrait registers every detail of his dissolute life. At once a Gothic tale of horror and a philosophical exploration of aestheticism, Dorian Gray probes the pleasures and dangers of life devoted to the gratifying the senses.”

NB: If I'm absent for long, please, take the books as an excuse. :-)

7/16/2014

PARADISE LOST

Picture from littlebhutan.com


It was three years ago, I first travelled to Paro. At the very first time, the place robbed my heart. And I decided then, in order to acquire residence there in future, I would marry a native girl and resettle there. The place is such beauty that even ‘Paradise’ won’t be able to do justice in describing it. With a surmountable river, suitable climate and fertile, historically enriched and religiously blessed soil, it’s a Shangri-La-, possessed and walked upon by humans. 

Last week, on ground of medical reasons, I went to the capital. Paro – being just near – I visited it again. The visit evoked the old feelings buried in me and nostalgia surfaced. I wished how more fortunate I would consider myself if only I belonged to this district. But being a Bhutanese is consolation here. 

In the past three years, Paro has changed a lot to better. But people scared me. 

In the morning of 5th, bro-in-law was informed by a relative there that his relative was found dead on the road. The fatal wounds on the victim’s body only told he’s been killed. The peace of the day and of the following ones was swallowed by the obituary news. 

However, the accused was caught and confession extracted: the previous night, the accused was drunk and driving. He didn’t realize he squashed someone under his vehicle tyres until he felt unusual stumble beneath his vehicle. By the time he came out, he was horrified to witness the ghastly accident. The flesh and bones of the victim that faced against the road had given in to the friction while being dragged. The victim was spot dead. Unfortunately, a police on duty sighted him on the spot, red-bodied by blood. 

The driver regrets the mistake – a mistake that did cost someone’s life. However, most of the people believe only part of his story. Many suspect the existence of grudge in between the two.

The following morning, while returning, traces of blood could be seen on the road, running few distances. No man can survive his blood being spilled over such length. Few kilometers away, as if to relate to the incident successively, a stray dog was mercilessly flattened. Innards of the creature were blown out. Certainly that’s doing of the ruthless strength of machine for no human could do it. 

I started return journey with an upset mind. Even in the supposed Shangri-la, there occurs grotesque road kill – absolutely inhuman and unforgivable. Perhaps, Paradise isn’t meant for humans.

7/02/2014

A WEEK IN CRRH, GELEPHU

First x-ray. Then blood test. Doctor baffled again. Sent for sputum test.

Day 1
A young lady doctor had substituted the previous male doctor. From my position in the queue I could hear her speaking in high commanding and quarrelsome tone to her patients. She’s one tough character in CRRH ( Central Regional Referral Hospital ), Gelephu.

I produced the results. She scanned quickly and read my OPD card where the previous doctor had noted my symptoms: pain in the left chest, shortness of breath while sleeping, slight fever, dry cough. Agreed, that’s what I told the male doctor. She inquired whether I smoke. I am a strict non-smoker.she plugged in the stethoscope and pressed it gently at different points at my back while she told me to take long breathes – through mouth – simultaneously. That done, she held x-ray against the window to examine. Unable to diagnose the disease, the doctor went out to consult senior medical specialist. So, she’s an amateur. Young, dark and beautiful, another evidence that she is one.

After few minutes, she appeared and handing over the material to my escorts – my sister and cousin – said it’s pneumonia I am suffering from.

She asked if I am a student. I am a UG student, studying in India, on vacation. She asked again when I should go back. And only when I replied that I got couple more weeks, she tore a history sheet, wrote my name, age , sex and in tone adamant and irrefutable, told I need to be admitted.

Did I make a mistake by telling her the length of my vacation? Maybe not – it’s for my health’s sake, afterall.

Day 2
Medical needle punctured the vein of my left hand and was left inserted there from yesterday. Two antibiotics, Ampicillin and Genta are being injected into it. Four times a day: morning 2 doses, afternoon 2 doses, at dusk 1 dose and at 10 p.m. 1 dose.

Day 3
My immediate neighbour is an old man of seventies. He coughs a lot. Each time he does, he vomits but saliva. For this, he’s been provided with a container – a cut coco-cola bottle. His attendant is his wife – around sixties, I assume but looks aged equally. Being better comparatively I didn’t call for my attendant.

Past two beds, lies a cripple: serious victim of bike accident and substance abuse. A network of minute pipes are connected to his nose and hole at the throat and even to the vitals through which urine is siphoned off to a plastic bag. His attendant – younger brother – cleans it regularly. His tattooed arm is a testimony to the type of life he led. It rises automatically yet effortlessly when he chokes and instantly the younger brother has to come to the rescue: clears the hole with a pipe-like device blowing air. Poor him. His piteous skeletal framework is a sight in which I see no hope. But I see miracle in the young boy who tends his brother day and night.

A boy who’s junior to me by four or five years has a weird suffering. When alone, he says he’s always attacked by unknown unearthly strangers. Every morning, a foreign psychiatrist visits him. His father never leaves him alone.
*****
At night a woman in critical state is shifted to our ward. She’s connected to a monitor which displayed the reading of her pulse ( and heartbeat ). Doctors and other medical assistants calculate her health status from the zigzag lines running across the screen. The patient wails and wriggles but by the strong hands of her two daughters, she’s pinned to bed. I heard the daughters report to doctor she forgets faces and is probably out of consciousness.
*****
The rest in the ward are all the patients of common non-infectious disease among Bhutanese – either diabetics or BPH ( blood pressure high ).

Day 4
Fed up with medication. I am enlightened on why some patients die in hospital. It would be more due to boredom than the real disease they are suffering from. The interiors never changes. Only clouds do – from smoke white to dirty dark. No entertainment either. Thought it wasn’t included in order to keep silence. But neither the silence is observed.

The floors are moped thrice a day. Doctors make wardround once in the morning.
*****
The dog’s ill-omened howls fill the entire night and the nightguard is at peace somewhere.

Day 5
Gloom set all over – within and without. The heavy rain threatens to perforate the roof. No matter. The new hospital is under construction, right opposite to the present. It’s set to finish within four years.

Day 6
One death. Four births.
*****
Doctor said the antibiotics are due over tomorrow and if the opacity in the lower left lung is cleared, I need not go to the capital hospital.  If need be, I requested, I will travel on my own. Ambulance itself is a sickness. She consents to my request.
*****
One of the two nurses at nightshift blames the patient – who’s still ill after surgery – for directly calling the surgeon. They claim they are the immediate person the patient should report to.

After 10 p.m., the two switches off the light in the Nurses Room, latches the door from inside and sleeps. The real night shift has begun.

At 3, my neighbour coughs severely like dying. The attendant goes to call the immediate nurse. But the knocks aren’t responded. Perhaps they are on their own personal duty on official hours.

Day 7
Four mobiles altogether lost from the hospital. No trace of the culprit. The nightguard defends himself,” one’s duty should be to take care of things under one’s nose.” Well. What is yours?  And he adds,” this is the second time it’s happened to this hospital.” And you say this with a pride in your tone.
*****
One more x-ray. The result sends me to Thimphu. But I am happy (as happy as if I am graduating from some renowned university) because I am getting discharged anyway.  
Bid adieu to my colleagues.


 Soon need to head to the capital. This also could be one reason why the capital is over populated compared to other districts in the country.