Reflection and Contemplation Day

Mayan calender ended but not the World. We are still living and will continue to do so.  21.12.2012 is just another day, perhaps a beautiful day as always.  I told many people that the World will not end. I think I made the right prediction. I am sure my wife is relieved now to see the day pass just as any other day.

I do not know the reason myself, but from hereon in my life, I wanted to make this day (21st December) as the most special day of every year I live. Every year on this day I want to remember those people who have made lasting difference in my life. I wanted to pray for them and thank them from the bottom of my heart. I wanted to spend  rest of my 21st, Decembers as the of reflection and contemplation day of the year.  

So here are few people to whom I owe "Thank you", as big as the Sky, the Ocean and the Earth. 

My Beloved Kings 

I would like thank my beloved Kings for creating this peaceful Bhutan for us. I would like to thank them from the depths of my heart for all the inspiration and motivation they showered us every day. I thank my Kings for their unceasing love and benevolence, for all the sacrifices they made in bringing hope and happiness for us. Thank you, my beloved Kings, Today I am well educated person and that I did not become a yak herder in the mountains of Shingkhar. Thank you my Kings. 

My Beloved Parents

I thank my father and mother for being ......well,...... my everything!. I thank them for giving me this beautiful life. I thank them for enduring the darkest hours and making the biggest sacrifices for my cause. I thank them for letting me grow my own height. I thank them for being my hero and my teacher. I may take many life times to repay their kindness, care. love, dedication and affection. But today, I wanted to let them know that they are endeared in my heart. Thank you Apa and Ama

My Beloved Teachers

I would like to thank all my teachers for making me who I am today. Big or small, my teachers everywhere played their part in shaping my destiny. Thank you all my beloved teachers.

But here are two of my teachers who taught me things that were far beyond the school syllabus. Mr. Sadhu and Lopen Tenzin Dorji. I have a long story to write about these two teachers of mine, but for today, I thank them for bearing me with all my rawness and my wildness. I would also like to thank them for their love and affection, -for being able to read my heart and soul. With the height of my naughtiness and mischief, no headmaster would have given a second thought about my termination, but I thank them for giving me endless second chances. I thank them for letting me grow up myself. Thank you sirs.

My Beloved Sister

She is a different story of my life. My beloved sister!  I knew she existed somewhere in my world. I thank her for having walked-in in my life, with all her bounty, when I needed the most. I thank her for being a constant source of my pocket money and more.......I used to tell her that. "you are my golden pillar" She indeed is my golden pillar. Thank you sister.

My Beloved Friend

There is a saying that "Friends either make or break our life". Here is one of my friend who helped me shape my life in the right direction. He helped me make my life! It is again a long story but let me brief.

Long time ago, I belonged to a group called "five kids on the block". -Of course, a group of naughty boys. We were five then. But one day with a sudden demise of a prominent member, our group fell apart. I do not know how, but I found myself friendless. I felt lost and lonely, but not until I found this good friend of mine.

In 1999 we were to move to another school, far away from our homes for our higher studies, I met his father for the first time. Before we moved out, he called us inside and told us to remain best friends forever. But that same year, his father passed away. I felt equally sad like his family! but I wowed to  keep his words. We were best friends since then. All these years, we lived like a family! Thank you, Geley for being a wonderful friend. Thank you for guiding me. scolding me and above all, bearing my poor self all the time.

With this, I would also like to say that I have many other friends, with whom I also shared a relationship like milk and water. Ever grateful and ever thankful. And I would like to write about them on many such 21st Decembers to come. 

My Beloved Wife

She is the most beautiful story of my life. I have not many words that can fittingly describe how thankful she is for me. In brief, I thank her for being the flower that forever blooms in the garden of my soul. I thank her for accepting me in her life. I thank her for all the smiles and happiness she brought in my life. I thank her for being the most wonderful mom for 3 most precious beings of my life. -My daughters, who are perhaps the most beautiful daughters in this world. I thank her for being with me through all this thick and thins of life. Thank you sweet heart.

As reported By Kuensel

A village, once synonymous with this domestic animal, now bids farewell to the last of them (and hails a new breed)

Sonamla with a milking yak

Shingkhar, Ura, Bumthang: The practice of herding yaks may soon come to an end in the Shingkhar valley of Ura, Bumthang, with the last herd of yak in the village waiting for their new owner to lift them.

The last herd, surviving in Shingkhar that belongs to Sonamla, 75, will be grazing in highland of Sephu in Wangduephodrang.

He sold them to a herder there.

Shingkhar was a village known for its strong culture of yak herding, and their livelihood mainly depended on dairy products from the yaks.

But ever since the road reached the valley in the mid 1990s, Shingkhar started potato farming and dependence on yaks for a source of livelihood reduced.

Shingkhar’s vast and lush pastureland is a visitor’s delight, and an ideal place to rear livestock.

Over a hundred acres of green pastureland surround Shingkhar village, showcasing its serenity and livestock culture.

This factor was the main reason for the community’s vehement protest against the proposal to use parts of the pastureland for a golf course.

Although the last herd of Shingkhar’s yaks is to leave, of late, the pastureland has been housing a new herd.

Over 100 tsedar yaks (yaks saved from being slaughtered), were released to graze on the land in Shingkhar. Sonamla, 75, who has lived with yaks since his youth, believes it was some kind of a sign.

All these years he did not give in to his children’s persistent persuasion to sell yaks and give up yak hearding for a more comfortable life.

“We can’t convince him, because his yaks are a part of him and herding them part of his life,” one of his sons Kuenzang said.

Sonamla, however, had to give in to his old age.

“My beloved yaks helped me raise my children, who have all grown up and are educated,” he said.

His legs began failing him from trudging uphill to higher altitudes in summers and bringing them back in winters.

Besides, he experienced a trauma attack following a fire that burned their yak herd makeshift last year in January that killed 14 of his yak calves.

Eve since, for about a year, his 35-year old daughter, Tshering Dema, has been taking care of the yaks, alongside her chores at home, and tending to her three children and her ailing father.

“While yaks in summer should be taken to a higher altitude that requires days of walking, I only managed a few hours further from the village last summer,” she said. “I have no one at home to look after my parents and children.”

Tshering Dema said the family did not want to sell the yaks. But it was growing difficult to tend to them.

Besides the tsedar yaks only aggravated the problem, because they had to herd the additional yaks, since there was no one to look after them.

Tshering Dema said the tsedar yaks posed problems to the existing herd during the breeding season, and rearing them for a lone woman was a major problem.

“These yaks are on tsedar and there is no proper caretaker,” she said. “I had to suggest my father that we sell our herd and he said that I call the shots.”

The number of households owning yaks in Ura has been declining every year since a decade ago.

In 2006, farmers of Ura’s four villages out of six reared yaks.

By 2007, yaks in Ura Madrong, the biggest village, disappeared.

Somthang villagers sold all their yaks in 2009.

Until mid-2011 Shingkhar had two households, including Sonamla’s, that still kept yaks.

When Sonamla’s yaks leave Ura valley this year, a lone villager in Pangkhar will be the last to rear yaks.

Records with livestock extension officer in Ura, Phub Thinley, show that of 250 yaks in 2007 in the valley it dropped to 223 in 2008 and 207 in 2009.

In 2010, it fell to 180 and to 100 last year; most of them sold to herders of Sephu in Wangduephodrang.

He said, Sonamla had about 45 yaks, which once gone some time this year will leave the valley with only about 55 yaks.

Of the 40 households in Shingkhar, about 10 reared yaks.

Almost all households owned about four to five yaks, which they kept with households that owned more yaks.

“Like many age-old customs of livelihood, this one too has become obsolete,” a farmer Sonam said. “With education and the pace with which the country is developing, our children will not want to do this.”

Meanwhile, Sonamla and his daughter awaits the buyer from Sephu to take away their 45 yaks, of which 15 are milking ones that graze on the green pastures of Shingkhar.

By Samten Yeshi

My Dad in The News.

As Reported By Kuensel, Bhutan's National News Paper. 

༉ བུམ་ཐང་རྫོང་ཁག་ ཨུ་ར་ཤིང་མཁར་གྱི་ གཡུས་ཚན་དེ་ སྔོན་དང་ཕུ་ལས་ར་ ལ་ནོར་ལུ་ འཚོ་བ་བརྟེན་སྡོད་མི་ཨིནམ་ལས་ ས་གནས་ཀྱི་ མི་སེར་ཚུ་ རང་མགོ་རང་འདྲོངས་སྦེ་ སྡོད་མི་ཅིག་ཨིན་རུང་ རྒྱལ་ཁབ་གོང་འཕེལ་འགྱོ་མི་ལུ་བརྟེན་ ལུང་གཤོང་དེ་ནང་ གཡག་གསོ་སྐྱོང་ལམ་སྲོལ་དེ་ མར་ཉམས་འགྱོ་དོ་ཡོདཔ་ཨིན་པས།

དེ་ཡང་ འདས་པའི་ལོ་ངོ་བཅུ་ཕྲག་༡ དེ་ཅིག་ལས་འགོ་བཙུགས་ ཨུ་རའི་མི་ཚུ་གིས་ གཡག་རུ་ཁག་སྦེ་ དབང་འདུས་ཕོ་བྲང་རྫོང་ཁག་ ཀློང་སྟོད་དང་ ཀློང་སྨད་ཀྱི་ འབྱོགཔ་ཚུ་ལུ་ བཙོང་ཡོདཔ་ལས་ ཧེ་མ་ གཡག་ལེ་ཤ་ཡོད་མི་ ཁྱིམ་གུང་༢༠ དེ་ཅིག་ཡོད་རུང་ ད་རེས་ནངས་པ་ ཤིང་མཁར་ལུ་ གཡག་རུ་ཁག་སྦེ་ གསོ་སྐྱོང་འཐབ་མི་ ཁྱིམ་གུང་༡ མ་གཏོགས་མེདཔ་ཨིན་པས།

ཕ་བརྒྱུད་བུ་བརྒྱུད་སྦེ་ ལ་ནོར་འཚོ་སྐྱོང་འཐབ་མི་ ཨཔ་བསོད་ནམས་ཀྱིས་ ཁོ་རའི་བུ་དང་ བུམོ་ཚུ་གིས་ གཡག་ཚུ་བཙོང་དགོཔ་སྦེ་སླབ་རུང་ དང་ཕུའི་ལམ་སྲོལ་ལུ་ གཞི་འཛིན་འབད་དེ་ ཉན་མ་བཏུབ་ཨིན་པས།

ཁོ་གི་བུ་ ཀུན་བཟང་གིས་ སླབ་མིའི་ནང་ ཁོང་ཨ་ལུ་ཚུ་ག་ར་ སྦོམ་ཐལ་ཡོདཔ་མ་ཚད་ ལ་ལུ་ཤེས་ཡོན་སྦྱང་ཚར་ཏེ་ ལཱ་གཡོག་ནང་ཡོདཔ་ལས་ ལོ་དང་ན་ཚོད་རྒས་པའི་ ནམ་དུས་ལུ་ ལ་ཁ་ལས་ཕར་ ལ་ནོར་འཚོ་སྟེ་ སྡོད་དགོཔ་མིན་འདུག་ཟེར་མནོ་སྟེ་ ཨ་པ་ལུ་ གཡག་ཚུ་བཙོང་སྦེ་ ཁོང་ཨ་ལུ་ཚུ་དང་གཅིག་ཁར་ སྐྱིད་ཏོང་ཏོ་སྦེ་ སྡོད་ད་ཟེར་ ག་དེམ་ཅིག་སླབ་རུང་ཉན་མ་བཏུབ་ཟེར་ཨིན་པས།

སྐྱེས་ལོ་ ༧༥ ལང་མི་ ཨཔ་བསོད་ནམས་ཀྱིས་ ཁོ་གི་མི་ཚེ་ ལ་ནོར་དང་གཅིག་ཁར་སྐྱོང་སྟེ་ ལོ་ངོ་༌མང༌རབ་ཅིག་ སོང་ཡོདཔ་ལས་ གཡག་མེད་པར་ རྩ་ལས་ར་ སེམས་ཆགས་མི་ཚུགས་ཟེར་སླབ་སྟེ་ བཙོང་མ་བཏུབ་ཨིན་པས།

ཨིན་རུང་ ད་རེས་ནངས་པ་ ཨཔ་བསོད་ནམས་དེ་ གཡག་ཚུ་ལུ་ བརྩེ་གདུང་དང་ ཞེན་ཆགས་ཀྱིས་ གཞན་ལུ་བཙོང་ནི་དེ་ སེམས་ཀྱིས་བཟོད་མ་ཚུགས་རུང་ ལོ་ན་རྒས་པའི་སྟབས་ཀྱིས་ ལ་ཁ་ལས་ཕར་ ལ་ནོར་ཚུ་ འཚོ་སྐྱོང་འཐབ་ནི་དང་ བལྟ་ནི་ལུ་ གཟུགས་ཀྱི་ལྕོགས་གྲུབ་མེད་མི་ལུ་བརྟེན་ ཁོ་གི་གཡག་དང་འབྱིམོ་ མཛོ་དང་མཛོ་མོ་ བསྡོམས་༥༠ དེ་ཅིག་ཡོད་མི་དེ་ བཙོང་དགོ་པའི་ གནས་སྟངས་ནང་ ལྷོད་ཡོདཔ་ཨིན་པས།

ཁོ་གི་ བུ་ཅིག་གིས་ སླབ་མིའི་ནང་ ཁོང་གི་གཡག་ཚུ་ གཞན་ཁར་བཙོང་ནི་དེ་ ཨ་པ་ལུ་ སེམས་ཀྱི་ན་ཟུག་སྦོམ་ཡོད་རུང་ ཐབས་ར་མིན་འདུག་ཟེར་ཨིནམ་ད་ མ་བཙོང་པར་བཞག་རུང་ འཕྲལ་ཁམས་ཅིག་ཁར་ ཤིང་མཁར་གྱི་ རྩྭ་ཐང་ནང་ གཡག་༡༠༠ དེ་ཅིག་ཚེ་ཐར་ བཏང་ཡོད་མི་ཚུ་ ལྟ་རྟོག་འབད་མི་ག་ཡང་མེད་པར་ ག་ལྷོད་སར་ བཏང་བཞག་ཡོད་མི་དེ་གིས་ དོ་འགྲན་སྦོམ་བྱུང་སྟེ་ཡོད་ཟེར་ཨིན་པས།

ཨཔ་བསོད་ནམས་ཀྱིས་ གཡག་ཉོ་མི་ཅིག་ ད་ལྟོ་ འཚོལ་བའི་བསྒང་ཡོདཔ་ད་ ཁོ་གི་ གཡག་ཚུ་ བཙོང་ཚུགས་པ་ཅིན་ ཤིང་མཁར་གྱི་ རྩྭ་འབྲོག་དེ་ནང་ རྩྭ་བཟའ་མི་ ཚེ་ཐར་བཏང་མི་ གཡག་ཚུ་ཡོད་རུང་ ཤིང་མཁར་ལུ་ གཡག་གསོ་སྐྱོང་འཐབ་སྟེ་ ཐོན་སྐྱེད་འབད་མི་ག་ཡང་མི་འོང་ནི་ཨིན་པས།

ད་ལྟོ་ དཔལ་འབྱོར་རིག་པའི་ གཙུག་ལག་ཤེས་ཡོན་སྦྱང་པའི་བསྒང་ཨིན་མི་ ཀུན་བཟང་གིས་ སླབ་མིའི་ནང་ ཨ་པ་གིས་ གཡག་བཙོང་མ་བཏུབ་པར་ བཞག་མི་དེ་ཡང་ གཅིག་ལས་བལྟ་བ་ཅིན་ དོན་དག་སྦོམ་འདུག་ཟེར་ཨིནམ་ད་ དེ་ཡང་ཤིང་མཁར་གྱི་ རྩྭ་ཐང་དེ་ རྩེད་ཐང་ལུ་ བསྒྱུར་བཅོས་འབད་ནི་གི་ གྲོས་འཆར་བཀོད་མི་ ཐོན་ཡོད་རུང་ མི་མང་གིས་ སྒོ་ནོར་གྱི་དོན་ལུ་ རྩྭ་འབྲོག་སྦེ་ སྤྱོད་ནི་ཨིན་ཟེར་སླབ་སྟེ་ མ་བྱིན་པར་ སྲུང་སྐྱོབ་འབད་ཚུགས་ཡོདཔ་བཞིན་དུ་ དེ་ནང་ སྔར་སྲོལ་ལྟར་དུ་ ལ་ནོར་གསོ་སྐྱོང་འབད་མི་ ག་ཡང་མེདཔ་ལས་ ཁོ་གི་ ཨ་པ་གིས་ ཉམས་མ་བཅུག་པར་ བཞག་བཞགཔ་བཟུམ་ཅིག་འདུག་ཟེར་ཨིན་པས།

ཨིན་རུང་ ལ་ནོར་གྱི་ གསོ་སྐྱོང་ལམ་ལུགས་དེ་ ཉམས་འགྱོ་ནི་གི་ དུམ་ཁར་ལྷོད་ཡོདཔ་ལས་ འཕྲལ་མགྱོགས་ར་ ལོ་རྒྱུས་རྐྱངམ་གཅིག་ལུ་ འགྱུར་ནི་མས་ཟེར་ བཤདཔ་ཨིན་པའི་གནས་ཚུལ།

Yak Nearing Extinction in Shingkhar

More than five years ago, I persuaded my father to sell off his most prized possessions. It consisted of little over 50 yaks, both males and females, milking as well as non-milking.  The reasons were simple and straight. Notwithstanding an adverse economic implication at home, I wanted my parents to come out from that nomadic life for once and for good. As an educated son with a decent job, honestly, I couldn’t bear to see my parents still toiling after beasts in the wilderness, -all round the season.

But I was surely not the first offspring to persuade him. In the past, many such attempts have been made by my elder siblings too, but none succeeded in influencing dad. Those radical advices and persuasions simply failed to lure or divert dad’s perspective.

Having survived the harshest possible life thus far, it was his notion that living his life, his way, on his terms was something that amused him more than anything else. As an ardent hard working farmer, laboring was something he cherished and so were his hardships with yaks in the high up mountains. To him it was just another season that would pass like any other ordinary days.

In all those long years, I thought my dad was right. I thought he has made an apt decision not to relinquish his possessions, because Shingkhar has been for ages, an ideal place for yak rearing and therefore his decision to continue the legacy of yak rearing was right by many folds.-He was right culturally. He was more right traditionally, ecologically and economically.

But with time and space even the fortitude as that of my dad’s is also subject to change. Change can neither be imposed nor can be forced. Such is the state of affair with my dad now. He now realizes that his ailing health is no longer energetic to answer the calls of the duty. He feels the crippling effect of old age. With no more options left, he is now on verge of becoming the last Shingkharpa to relinquish yaks for good.

His relinquishment would mean that yak is facing extinction in Shingkhar! the worst nightmare, long feared by my dad are soon becoming reality. While making that decision, My dad surely must have felt thousand steel hammers beating and tearing his heart apart.

My dad Milking yak

When the yaks are long gone from Shingkhar, 

I will remember them as follows:

I grew up with yaks, 

They are the animals that my dad loved 

Because they were source of our livelihood.

On my rare trips to his domicile, 

I remember myself being fed with butter 

That sized larger than the plate 

And a tea prepared not with water 

But with cent percent milk. 

In summers he would go lavish 

Sending me and my siblings 

A parcels of butter wrapped in etho-metho leaves 

And cheese in white sacks. 

The Most Good looking Man and Women in my World

My Dad

My Mom.

Seeing these Portraits,

I go speechless,

There isn't a word,

Which describes neither the artistic beauty 

Nor the beauty you behold in the portrait. 

My Mom and Dad

As it stands,

Immortalized like great Monalisa,

By my favorite Artist,

My Sister.

Pema Lhamo is her name,

Mother of Three,

She is an artist in her own way,

She is my definition of Van Gogh,

Picasso, Edward, and on goes the list...

I Thank My sister for her creation,

I wish her good luck.

My Father is More Than a Hero. End

Now here are few reasons why I consider my father more than a Hero for me. 

1. May father may not have won any gallantry awards but long before he resigned from erstwhile Bhutan army, he was among those nervous yet brave men who guarded our motherland from intruders, especially from the North (in 1960s) 

2. My father may not have a certificate to prove his architectural genius but he is the man to have debuted his carpentry skills by building a monastery on the cliff that overlooks the valley of Sumthrang in Ura. Not only that, He was also among few chosen Bhutanese architects, who undertook the task of restoring of Bhutanese symbol known as Phugthang Dewachenpi Phodrang (also known as Punakha Dzong) and Tango Monastry in Thimphu.

3. With no formal education, my father is as good as a blind man. But for me he has always been the source of inspiration. I have always had the most memorable days with my father, not because son is with his biological father. But we shared a relation that was far more sublime and pious. To me, He is my great teacher! The way he imparted moral values were the most humbling experiences I had in my life. As a young and naughty school going boy, he taught me how to respect my teachers and seniors. He taught me that it’s not right to challenge my elders by throwing rocks, knives and bottles at them. He always taught me that being humble and sober will ultimately take to nearer to my dreams and aspirations. In doing so he taught me that simple and humble is the temple of god

4. In my early boyhood days, it was through my father that I realized noting in life is permanent. Everything that is born once is subject to common phenomenon called death. Therefore He taught me to be more compassionate, more considerate and more accommodating with any beings. He reminded me of my sins, -the sins I have committed by way of my boyish indulgence in slaughtering roosters, cats and dogs. If continued, He warned me of either a miserable life ahead or a quick and sudden death. He also taught me Drolma recitation, which he learned from his late father by heart. Fortunately or unfortunately, Drolma recitation is the only thing that I and my father have inherited from my late grandfather. 

5. Being illiterate and having to raise ten children must have surely taken a big toll mentally and physically on my father. There were often days, when my father returned home drenched in sweat and rain, exhausted and wretched, Hungry and thirsty. But for us (as his children) his return meant a lot. His return to home every evening meant our security, our peace and our smiles. It meant we have more happier moments in store than we have things to feed on and clothe.

I think I will stop here. Because our fathers are our Hero. everybody knows that but try putting up in words is way difficult. Try once and you will understand why your father is a special person to you. 

My Father is More Than a Hero. Part Two

I referred many books and consulted many language gurus. After so many years of search, I am now starting to realize that the word “Hero” doesn’t seem that brain teasing like calculus and trigonometric. 

Rather, Hero is someone who inspires us and gives mental strength in our endeavors. Hero is also someone to whom we look upon as a role model with all his noble traits and characters. Hero can be both living person as well as nonliving persons. Just like mythological characters, hero is someone who is immortal and everlasting in our thoughts, mind and space. And the list goes on. 

So with this I could now conclude that Hero doesn’t necessarily have to come in ding-dong Bollywood or Hollywood fashions. I think what I said some decade ago was correct and to the best of my knowledge, answer worth a pat on my back.

Sometimes Hero did come in a form of humble innocent and emotional carpenter, He is my father, the Golden pillar of my family. The harbinger of hope, happiness and home for me.

Part 3 coming soon.........

My Father is More Than Hero.. Part One

Once upon a time, when I was young, innocent and green, one of our senior Government officials visited our school. Before he talked extensively on the importance of education, he asked us one question. I was too young then to apprehend as to why he asked that question. But he asked us with great interest and intensity. “Who is your Hero?” He asked us. No sooner did he ask, and then came the roaring answer from my mates. There were many who shouted Salman Khan, Amithabachan, Sharukh Khan Superman, Shaktiman, Spiderman and the list went on. It went on for some time but when it finally subsided, He pulled me from the line and asked me the same question one more time.

I had no beautiful answer for him but I told him that “my father is more than hero” to me. He sounded unsatisfied and so were my mates. They all giggled and I blushed. I even overheard some of my friends making mockery out of my genuine answer. Some said my father is “carpenter Hero” while some even doubted as to whether I really understood the meaning of the word “Hero”. 

Since English was (is) not my mother tongue, it brought me many questions than I could actually answer. English, those days was considered as a language of urban aristocrats, but rural drunkards occasionally took the liberty of misusing it. In my blushing and uneasy moment, I even felt like I was a rural drunkard who misunderstood the meaning of “Hero”. In other words the word “hero” made me contemplate, think and rethink deep all through my life.

Read Part two:      Here
Read the last part : Here

Here is a Story of my Mom and Dad

In the summer of 2008

 By Profession, I am a carpenter.  My world into carpentry all started when I debuted my skills as carpenter with construction of a small monastery on the cliff of Sumthrang in Ura for a lama cum lopen known more as Chhoeje in our locality.

With this, I have built numerous houses both in my locality and afar. Some of my finest craftsmanship is today visible in the beauty of Tango monastery in Thimphu and magnificent and towering Dzong in Punakha  to which I made my contribution under the divine decree I received from the fourth dragon King of Bhutan. In similar fashion, my wife was a traditional handloom weaver. She used to weave many beautiful Jachen Kisho thara  and woolen yathra for our Naktsang Ama then.  Ironically, we have no certificates what so ever to prove our profession here.

At our local level, we both originated form a well off family. Both our parents had everything necessary that would sustain livelihood of the family, -Starting from herd of cattle in the low lands to yak in the alpine, added by  group of pony and flock of sheep at the door step.  That was the definition of rich then, -so called the chukpo in local terminology.

Since we are both from the same village, there was nothing strange when we got married in our prime twenties. To say, I was the best looking man in my village, it would rather sound blowing my own triumphant, but I sincerely would like to assert here that my wife was the definition of damsel during our time.

 Few years into our gleeful marriage we were blessed with a good looking son. Sadly he  didn’t make to his adulthood. His demise was painful beyond our words.  However, we were again blessed to have a beautiful daughter followed by two sons. This obviously called for a concern from my late mother-in-law with whom we shared the house, because too many mouths to feed meant severe economic pressure on the constant family livelihood.  

Somehow, she wanted us to live separately. Her decision, by any means was subtle. When that thing got combined with other nitty-gritty family feuds, our small family had no option other than to take a shelter in a shade used for cattle. All we had was a small copper pot and a load of locally stitched blankets and mattress.  That was it, we received little support whatsoever form both our parents.

The days turned to weeks and weeks into months.  The years passed and passed swiftly.  The otherwise beautiful and idyllic valley was nothing but a mere barren plateau for us. So to make our life worth living and more so to make use of my young-fatherly strength, we migrated to lower lands of Kurtoe. There, we worked tirelessly on Government land. We planted maize and chilli. To make ends meet, we even resorted to easy picking like raising piglets for pork!

It was not only me and my family, who were at rough sea. There were other events unfurling as well. My younger sister was denied her access to our house when she decided to marry a man against our late parents will. There were also rumors that she moved to different place altogether.

Until my late younger brother took over, I used to be the strongest man in my village. That strength came in handy for me. A father of my status required it all. Those were the days when I, first experimented my carpentry instincts.  I became carpenter out of necessity and by default!

Isolated and cutoff, those were the days of great depression for my family. The competition was fierce and those in possession of land fairly progressed and prospered. We prospered and progressed as well, but in terms of having children! If progress was to be measured in terms of having children, then we surely beat all our competitors. In gap of eleven years, my wife again gave birth to four loveliest and cutest daughters.  That took my family to nine including two of us.

We then decided to move back to our native place on permanent basis. Even though we survived hand to mouth, we were also able to save in terms of grains, because my carpentry skills and my wife’s weaving skills came in handy. Few years later we not only decided to build a house but also started domesticating few yaks, a pair of pony and a flock of sheep.

With all those hard works and perseverance, we finally managed to pull ourselves into the flow of life as any other locals.  By then two of our elder sons were already admitted to school which was closely followed by two daughters.  We had little to feed but surely had lots and lots of amusements. My children would come home every Saturday evening and display every lessons they learnt, -starting form nursery rhymes to folk songs, from national anthem to march-past song and from Che-Nye-Sum to One-Two-Three. They learnt it all  by heart !

With few kids into the school and few at home, still crawling and toddling, my wife again gave birth to a healthy son when I was in full swing with the construction of our much awaited and anticipated house. My little son grew up like the way our house took shape, stone by stone and wood by wood.

Four years later, my wife again gave birth to a daughter.  She became our ninth children. The tenth and the final one soon followed after a gap of four equal years. The mere numbers created plethora of predicament in varying magnitudes. The food ran scarce and so did the cloths. Amazingly, to the envy of our local leader, my iron like kids looked well feed and well clothed.

Predicament kept mounting, day by day and the credit grain I availed from a rich man in Kurtoe couldn’t even sustain my large family. I even had to discontinue sending few of my children, who had good record academically, to school. When pillar and post ran short, I had no option other than to run to Thimphu to beg for kidu from the king himself. He graciously consented to my plea and I was given a land on which I could cultivate and feed my growing and voracious kids.  

That was also the time I first met my youngest brother who recently became dasho along with few other dashos like him from our place. I came back home with all the good  second hand cloths I have collected from my relatives and  with the empty but but of high utility oil cans I have gathered from the bins of the city. For my youngest son I managed to buy a new Pangtse gho as I have promised.

Our lives have improved as a result of Kidu form the king and I made up my mind never to keep my kids out of school. When my three youngest children started schooling, life became relatively easier than it was decade ago. Just like their brothers and sisters, three of them also did well in school too.

Today all my ten children have grown up and have a family of their own.  We could educate only five of them and all are doing fine. Remaining five, today are following our footsteps but in much better circumstances. Some of them have become grandfather and grandmother themselves!

Some are religious and some spirituous. Some have a tongue as sharp as serpent while some are down-to earth human. Some treated us with utmost respect and dignity where as some bothered least. They are our kids by heart and by soul. Irrespective of all their treatment towards us, we love them all equally form the bottom of our heart, because we believe at one point or the other, we have sacrificed our lives just for them.

Recently, I am being diagnosed with high blood pressure and as a result of which half of my body lost sense including my mouth. I can speak no more but understand and hear them all. As per indigenous doctors, they say, it’s because of my over exposure to the burning flames of Meme Ragula, also known as Zaa in Bhutanese context.

To enlighten me, all who come to see me say that it’s a curable ailment and that I should remain emotionally stable, pray to Guru Rimpoche and take blessings from as many rimpoche as possible. It’s my hope against hope that that it works, because I don’t want to die dumb. I have many prayers to say for my lovely children, my grand children and for my great grand children, before I bid farewell to this beautiful world.