Wine Fiction

The Departure

2011-10-21T05:26:00.005+07:00

Oh! Son of a noble family,
since time immemorial, you were free and immaculate,
where the primordial wisdom awaited awakening;
bounded by our defilement,
you wandered in samsara for our sake,
but you were not lost...
Now that the vision of the glorious copper colored mountain dawns on you,
go forth and merge into its splendor.

Like Milerapa, frail and weak,
you suffered immeasurable pains,
but even in pain, you always found strength to meditate
and prayed for the benefit of all beings.
And in suffering, you purified all your defilement.
Now as you approach the glorious copper colored mountain,
let the compassionate rays of Padmasambhava
soak you in eternal bliss.

Go there, do not hold back.
This world will always be in pain
and each to our own,
we must find our own way home.

Do not let our tears distract your mindfulness
as we are still unrealized beings,
chained by our karma to the five poisons.

In your life, you always comforted us with wisdom and compassion,
now that you dwell in the glorious copper colored mountain,
shower upon us, the helpless sentient beings,
your wisdom, kindness and compassion
and deliver us from the endless ocean of Samsara.

Life on the edge of a shoe

2011-07-15T18:56:00.001+07:00

Are you Walter? he asked, puffing on a dark cigarette, with his left eye closed, smoke rising towards his right eye.

Who’s Walter? I asked.

A short woman in pink with pink bag clutched to her chest looked at me, then to the man with a dark cigarette and to her bag.

Are you Walter? he repeated. I pretended not to hear him and watched a group of policemen on the other side of the street looking at a girl with short skirts and ample bosom. He mumbled something to himself and laughed, the laughter disappeared into a crowd dancing to a tiny cd player and the music from the cd player was lost into the sound of traffic. The traffic was a mess.

Everyone was no one or pretending to be someone…, observed the man with the brown cigarette.

A cat without tail rubbed against a lamp post and looked up measuring the length of the post. Just then, a policeman kicked the cat into the oncoming traffic with his steel toe boot. An old BMW ran over the cat.

This is a hollow life, the man with the cigarette said. I pretended not to hear, but wanted to ask him who the hell was Walter. I did not.

tears

2011-07-10T16:08:00.001+07:00

Mounted on the wall,
a picture,
stared across the floor,
soaked in the afternoon sun -
dry and hot.
The sun rays, tears...
hurt the eyes...blind.

The last bat

2011-01-10T00:51:00.000+07:00

I can see! shouted the bat as it flew out of the cave into the world that lay in ruins.

It was useless.

A few hours before the bat could see, the world had ended. For some reason, it was the only thing alive. A nocturnal creature deprived of sight, the bat could see the world, now dead. But what good was that? If it lived, it did not matter. If it killed itself, it did not matter. Life had no meaning. Death had no meaning.

For once, it dawned on the last bat that we lived for others as others lived for us. Alone in the world, our life had no purpose. Now the last bat was everything the world was. It was nothing.

Many dark days ago, the bat asked questions, blind questions, questions about life, almost with a philosophical edge yet without philosophical need or urge… The bat asked wise questions looming around the dark cave, hanging upside down in a damp cave. The bat found answers. It was not enlightening nor was it amusing. It was just an answer.

What is the meaning of life? The bat asked. For once, the bat was serious. And there it was, the answer, hanging upside down in darkness. Déjà vu, thought the bat.

What is the meaning of life? The bat asked again.

The bat had the answer. But then, what does it matter? The bat thought.

It did not matter.

It did not matter because neither the question nor the answer was relevant in face of the ruined earth. For it was the last living thing on earth, both the question and the answer lived as long as it lived.

Yet, there it was. Like the bat, the answer hung upside down in the damp darkness.

Nothing...nothing...nothing...

2010-11-26T01:58:00.000+07:00

Nothing...

How ridiculous that sounds. But if it was posted on FB or twitter, it would be a 'somewhat' good status.

Of course, Facebook and Twitter are just so much easier. Twitter limits your expression to 140 characters, and Facebook is loaded with apps to provide more fun than blogging.

If this was a tweet, I would end here.

Idea of Buddhism

2010-11-11T11:08:00.001+07:00

When did the idea of God as the creator come into our Buddhist beliefs?

I am not even sure why I’m writing this so much so that I don’t even know if other religions are the same. But, I wouldn’t be so arrogant to dismiss them. And just because humans have been known to abuse religious faiths, that does not say anything about the merit of faith itself.

Is Buddhism a religion? Is it philosophy? Psychology? Science?

Whatever it is, Buddhism doesn’t get tired as it is neither too fast nor too slow. It is steady and continuous like breathing, a plant becoming a tree , a river flowing to the ocean for centuries. It is unlimited in size and feel, because it doesn’t have the criteria of starting and ending. It is like the feelings you get when you close your eyes and imagine as if you are millions of kilometres above the earth and seeing in every directions. Buddhism is an ocean of love and compassion, which accepts everything without concept of odd or even. It doesn’t get broken.

Buddhist concepts like “desire”, “arrogance”, “ignorance” “enlightenment” and others have been over simplified and crudely translated and defined in English, which may not even be the right translation to express those things and are just derived results. Maybe, that is one of many reasons that we find hard to understand and master.

The difference between Buddhism, as a religion of experience and other religion of faith is that Buddhist teachings are valuable only as instructions to reach certain experiences – cessation of suffering, of illusion, or in more inspiring terms complete, boundless flowering of understanding, clarity, loving kindness, compassion and bliss. Whether the historical Buddha actually gave this or that teaching is of secondary importance to whether it is conducive to progress toward the highest and most blissful state.

The idea that you can throw away the experience of 2,500 years of continuously successful application of Buddhist methods in favour of material gains and historical reconstruction of society is like throwing the pot, the rice, and the stove out of the window and staring contentedly at a picture of food. Very modern, as it happens, but not very sensible.

There is a growing number of people who are turning away from rigid religious doctrine to the actual practice and discipline of spirituality. This means less criticism, exclusionary talk, and more healing, tolerance, patience and forgiveness to one another regardless of our religious practice. The human in us yearns for the divine, not for an exclusionary religious doctrine. While on the other hand, some of us turn our freedom to a doctrine shrouded in blind faiths.

But then, why do some of our people take to other religion throwing away their lifetime of faith in Buddhism? Is Buddhism not right in our present time that make some of our people to force others to take other faiths and then blame our government and its people for not warranting them enough religious freedom? What is religious freedom if not to find our own means of liberation from pains and sufferings?

Buddhism may not be an answer to life’s troubles. So is the case with other faiths. The answer rarely lies in faith we believe.

However, that’s much too shallow of a perspective. Perhaps we have been over exposed to cultures and other faiths in a western perspective.

Jumping memories, night fiction

2010-11-06T15:47:00.001+07:00

My mother’s sister lived in the city. I still remember when I first went to their house populated with cats and a couple of girls dressed in beautiful clothes. The house smelled like flowers. The cats slept on the sofa and purred when stroked on their heads. There was TV too that played foreign movies on VHS tape. The girls were nice to me. Maybe pitied me for I was the country one, a rustic and a bit weird that smelled of cows and village dirt.

- Go take a bath, suggested my mother’s sister and my mother’s sister’s daughters smiled. The cat had woken up and were licking their paws.

They gazed at me while I ate for I had around four servings of their delicious city food garnished with tasty cheese packed in tins.

When night came, they expressed their regrets for the lack of extra bed in their beautiful house for me to sleep. Being quite quick to catch on such things, I said goodbyes and meekly retired out into the cold darkness. Once outside, I was quite worried. There were options though. I went to my uncle’s house down by the river, but the dogs were not too friendly. So, I decided to walk around the street until dawn...

The man who killed two lions with his bare hands

2010-10-12T00:57:00.001+07:00

I can walk between raindrops! He shouted and walked into the rain. Of course, he was soaked to the bone.

Sometimes he went away for days. No one knew where he went. Some said he was out in the forest meditating like the Buddha, surrounded by foliage and struggling with hunger. Those were just stories.

The story goes that my great grandfather killed two lions with his bare hands – that is, two lions at the same time.

That was when all the problems started.

Someone even said I met the old man, the chance of which I strongly doubted since he was long dead before I was even born.

The story has that my great grandfather was a little loose on the head, a gift of the two lions that he killed with his bare hands. I asked my father about it once, but he recollected none of the lion killing heroism though he was doubtfully recollecting the loose screws in his head.

My father said that my great grandfather went to the forest once to collect firewood and returned home with a piece of wood struck on his neck or the back of his head or somewhere in that region. Since then, he was a gone case.

There were so many variations to the story. I believed all of them.

Gathering discarded days

2010-09-21T21:08:00.001+07:00

In darkness,
the girl of my dreams
woke up and walked away...

Treading on the path she walked,
I followed her,
shadows chasing me.

If not for darkness,
how can you see the light?
Whispered the shadow,
for I am as the light,
I appear not from darkness
but from light.

Many nights,
a philosopher sat in the dark
gathering discarded words,
spreading dreams on the wall
thick and wounded.
In his eyes,
I saw peace but no dreams.

Let us dream,
said the shadow,
If not for reality,
how can dreams exist?
Dreams are expanse gathering
of discarded days.

In my dreams,
flowers bloomed on a rock,
she looked into my eyes and smiled,
It was a beautiful dream.

When I woke up,
the shadow was gone,
so was the light.

alternate living

2010-09-12T17:01:00.001+07:00

Beneath the madness lurks that sanity,
he clicked his tongue and laughed,
come and make love to my woman!
Love is sharing.

No, thank you,
I said,
and drowned half a gallon of local wine
it tasted like gasoline.

There were times
when I avoided certain streets
because of those food stalls -
those wonderful smell of food -
hunger is a good discipline...

The local band played heavy metal,
This is freedom!
This is freedom!
What's love without freedom?
What's freedom without love?

The guitar boy was a cute lass!
he wore a phallus necklace
and a tattoo of green dragon
on his small right arm;
he looked at me sweetly.

I love my woman,
continued the man,
but you can have her tonight
here,
take the keys...

No, I said
Desire is a good discipline...

The next day they found the old man
dead in the bathroom,
bruised and naked.

He never had a woman,
nor a friend,
the guard told me.

The deranged

2010-08-19T02:50:00.001+07:00

The moment I was in the room that I checked myself in to the institute of the mentally deranged, a singular thought occurred, 'man, this is serious'.

It hit me hard.

People sat around, spaced a certain distance apart, looking and pretending not to look at each other. Some were watching TV mounted high on the wall, some looked inward, some looked outward, some smiled, some frowned, not even aware of themselves and of passing time.

Here gathered a room full of ghosts. Then I realized I was one of them. I didn’t want to make eye contact either. So, I watched the television mounted on the wall, counted my finger, looked deep into the space, looked away when people looked at me.

The therapy mostly or rather totally consisted of her asking questions and me answering. As days passed, she didn’t ask too many questions. She just sat there, smiling with compassion and optimism, looking at me like a keen lover, exploring my mind.

So? She asked once. So? I thought when I realized that was the question.

It was strange how a single 'so' could unfold multitude of scopes and views. A single 'so' was the question, a question that made me explore myself, a question that made me aware of myself. A question that made me ask further questions.

Why am I here? I asked her once. Why are you here? She answered. She was meant to ask questions, I concluded. I had the answers, but all I came up was more questions. It was driving me mad.

Am I crazy, doctor?

Do you think you are crazy?

Questions.

But, I had hopes, she told me, because I was beginning to ask questions.

I must socialize more, she said. Smile when people smiled at me. Answer when people asked me questions. Talk when people conversed with me. I was also asked to go out and mingle with the crowd and make friends. 'No man is an island,' she quoted from some passage I remembered reading somewhere in school.

More importantly, she told me, I did the right thing by coming 'here', meaning the hospital for the mentally deranged. Even my deranged mates told me the same thing, and suddenly I realized how important it was to hear it from them (though they might not have the slightest idea what the hell they were talking about). Though I was doing the right thing, doubt followed me into the hospital and beyond the recess of my deranged mind – now curing of madness.

But the truth was I had never been treated for madness before, let alone spend time in the hospital visiting 'such' people. I was quite startled to discover that many of my fellow deranged had been there before. Some had lost their wives and husbands, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, lovers and friends...everything, everything except their lives. I thought I was the only one to have lost everything...No man is an island (John Donne?)

But what life was that? Here, there was no hope, no dreams, no past, no future.... We did not know we lived. Like shadows, we slithered into the darkness of our beings...phantom of existence, trying to cleanse off our madness to live among the livings.

The doctor having certified my sanity, I checked out (after how many months, I forgot), totally confused and feeling a bit strange. As I walked out, having certified my sanity, I thought I cared about some of 'these' people. I went around giving and getting goodbye hugs and best wishes with tears in my eyes (and theirs too).

As I walked in the town that afternoon, I tried to fit myself into this thing called society. I looked around. It was here that I began to laugh so loud that I had to stop and lean over the wall for support. I had never laughed so hard in my life. It was exactly what I needed.

It suddenly occurred to me that I cured my madness just to live among the crazy ones...

Dark night, bright stars

2010-08-08T00:36:00.001+07:00

“I’m sorry, I was drunk,” he said without remorse, stench of alcohol still lingering in his breathe.

I don’t mind, His friend lied.

There was a moment of silence. In that silence was a moment of realization that disappeared like thin veil of ether on the skin, scent still lingering...nauseating and irrelevant in face of greater scope of indulgence.

Sometimes, he pushed his friend with an one-sided argument, his senses flared by whiskey, his emotions boiled over a girl he harbored ‘endless’ love his entire life.

“Stars are the brightest during the darkest night,” he observed with diligence and a hint of intelligence.

“The scope for happiness is best felt during hours of sorrow. Right now, I have the greatest capacity to be happy...you know why? Do you?”

His friend was silent. There was no point arguing with a man whose wit and intelligence seemed lubricated and sharpened at this hour of the night.

“Because I am in the shit...so to speak. I know, life’s true meaning is felt at the hour of death. What do you think about that?” With that, he banged his fist on the table so hard that bottles, glasses and plates fell tumbling on the floor, cigarette butts smoked deep into the filters went flying in every direction.

And with that discourse, repeating over and over again, much to the agitation of is friend, he took his points till the morning.

“Back in the village, when dusk fell, night came abruptly...

“What was I saying? Oh, never mind...

“The power of evil is so strong that any attempt to embrace good further plunged itself into a whirlpool of troubles and misfortunes. Now that those things called good and bad, words people love to juggle their tongues, weighing and quantifying the qualities of anything, mean nothing in the end. We live our lives measured in thickness of our misfortunes, telling tales of the past edged in regrets and remorse...

“Anyway, when dawn came, day is near...”

Perception

2010-07-19T14:20:00.002+07:00

Imagine, he tells me smiling, imagine that you are in a state of mind where space and time are still and empty...that is the reality.
Is reality just an imagination? I ask him. He just smiles.
I try to imagine a world where space and time stand still. I could only think of delicious food, then beautiful women smelling like a flowers. Pleasures.
I could imagine of rain falling on a clear evening. Rainbow arched over the mountains. River flowing down the valley. Flowers blooming in spring. Beauty, a reality...Illusion. Perception.
Then, a person, a being with no sense of hearing, no sense of sight, no sense of touch, no sense of smell, no sense of taste. He just sits there, rounded up in a world of his own. What about his reality? I think...
"Neither from itself nor from another, nor from both, nor without a cause does anything whatever anywhere arises". - Nagarjuna

Songs of Milarepa

2010-07-06T19:22:00.001+07:00

Back in the eighties when things were grim and wonderful, we hiked to a monastery in the mountains pitched deep into the wilderness. The old caretaker was jovial and generous, where he cooked porridge with cockroaches and flies. It was delicious nonetheless.

During lazy afternoons, he read from the scriptures and narrated stories of Milarepa, the great Tibetan saint who starved himself in a cave in search of truth, which he ultimately found, so it was said. The old caretaker even sang some poems of Milarepa, his voice echoing in the great hall of the ancient monastery.

Listening to him and hearing the words of Milarepa, everything seemed useless – money, power, fame, recognition...everything – until we went back to living a normal life where everything seemed necessary, without which, it seemed, life would be meaningless.

Back home, father was drunk and a bit emotional. ‘As long as you live in a society surrounded by friends and family, wealth and fame is what defines life or rather one’s identity...at least superficially and temporally,’ he said smiling and with lots of emotions, ‘it takes enormous will power and perseverance to lead a Milarepa-like life. It is almost impossible, but possible.’

Sometimes he read from the Songs of Milarepa. A half-or-so-dozen listeners sat around him on a thin patch of grass in the warm afternoon winter. Father’s emotional rendition of Milarepa’s hardship made the old folks cry. However, young boys flirted with girls as they waited for my father to narrate the juicy tales of Lam Drukpa Kinley, which he sometimes did to please a local woman when mother was away to tend the cows.

‘A vagabond who attained enlightenment in a single lifetime,’ my father said one evening, drunk and philosophical, swallowing a lump of emotions, almost choking himself as we waited for dinner.

We watched potato curry gurgling in a black pot on a wood-fed oven as mother stirred it with a ladle dipped in yidpa.

It smelled delicious and the evening had just begun.

Response to Logician - Milerapa

I bow at the feet of my teacher Marpa.
And sing this song in response to you.
Listen, pay heed to what I say,
forget your critique for a while.

The best seeing is the way of "nonseeing" -
the radiance of the mind itself.
The best prize is what cannot be looked for -
the priceless treasure of the mind itself.

The most nourishing food is "noneating" -
the transcendent food of samadhi.
The most thirst-quenching drink is "nondrinking" -
the nectar of heartfelt compassion.

Oh, this self-realizing awareness
is beyond words and description!
The mind is not the world of children,
nor is it that of logicians.

Attaining the truth of "nonattainment,"
you receive the highest initiation.
Perceiving the void of high and low,
you reach the sublime stage.

Approaching the truth of "nonmovement,"
you follow the supreme path.
Knowing the end of birth and death,
the ultimate purpose is fulfilled.

Seeing the emptiness of reason,
supreme logic is perfected.
When you know that great and small are groundless,
you have entered the highest gateway.

Comprehending beyond good and evil
opens the way to perfect skill.
Experiencing the dissolution of duality,
you embrace the highest view.

Observing the truth of "nonobservation"
opens the way to meditating.
Comprehending beyond "ought" and "oughtn't"
opens the way to perfect action.

When you realize the truth of "noneffort,"
you are approaching the highest fruition.
Ignorant are those who lack this truth:
arrogant teachers inflated by learning,
scholars bewitched by mere words,
and yogis seduced by prejudice.
For though they yearn for freedom,
they find only enslavement.

Gathering dust in dreams

2010-07-03T13:57:00.001+07:00

This old oak tree – standing leafless, lifeless, motionless - stubborn to the wind and rain, its roots frozen in the red mud...as if the ground were cold hell over which I advanced once again through darkness and pains.

I can see that old fortress again, an old fortress, dilapidated, ruined, wasted...the structure of this mournful castle from another age, this huge and luxurious castle, silent rooms, silent corridors without end follow upon corridors. This enormous fortress that saw many victories and and now ruined, defeated, deserted, silent. Those heavy ornamentation, murals, paintings faded on the cracked walls, beaten by dust, rain, heat, cold...like shadows in dreams.

This is where the dead was.

There are no sounds here as if the very ear were far away, far away from this numb old barren tree and ruined fort, far from this barren earth where I stand beneath the leafless tree...with its branches shooting up into the dark sky, dead leaves glued to the ground...just to meet you. Between the lifeless tree and ruined fortress amidst which I advanced, I found myself already...waiting for you.

We lived our lives side by side like day and night where we met in dreams. And in waking, you were gone...now only our past hold us, memories lost and created to ease the mind, this mind troubled by the shadows of dreams, those dreams of you, you who will not come.

Yet here I am...waiting.

I can no longer stand this, this silence, these walls, the smell of this old oak...these whisperings, worse than silence that you condemn me to.

I stand under this useless old oak tree, its branches barren and pointing to the dark sky overlooking an old ruined fortress, looking out for you, waiting again, for you who will not come back. Yet, let me wait a few minutes, a few seconds, a few more seconds, as though you were still hesitant to separate from yourself...in this same place where you imagined it. Fearfully or hopefully, I must wait here for you.

No, this hope is now pointless.

This story is already over.

Staring at the thoughts while counting holes in the wall

2010-06-19T18:22:00.001+07:00

That day while he was counting bullet holes in the wall, a strange thought crossed him that changed him for a while. This is a beautiful world, he thought and smiled. Everything that we did amounted to nothing but the realization of such moments.

In that moment, he asked and answered every question. In that moment, he was useful and important. In that moment, everything was possible.

He stared at his thoughts, counting bullet holes in the wall.

The beautiful thought left him even before he grasped. All that was left were the holes, grilled into his mindscape, empty and useless...

The frog that went to the sea

2010-06-01T08:31:00.001+07:00

It was raining. Frogs were croaking. It was a wet evening.

I remembered a story of a frog in the well that took to the sea and ultimately died. It also had a moral in the end, something like those Aesop's fables of which I failed to remember what it was.

Listening to the rain and croaking of frogs, I soon fell asleep with dreams of amphibians. It was here that a young man told me a story of a frog who went to a city near the sea.

A country frog was invited by his distant cousin living in the city near the ocean. Since childhood, they were not in good terms, always looking to outsmart the other.

The city frog had everything covered, so it thought. First I’ll show him the city, then the ocean...this is sure to burst his heart to pieces, thought the metro frog and chuckled.

When the rustic cousin came, things did not go as expected. Rather, the country frog seemed to be enjoying everything in the city. There even was that unmistakable lightness of being, that shininess in its eyes, that smile of contentment on its face.

The metro cousin was furious.

Wait till I show you the ocean, thought the metro one and dragged the rustic frog to the beach.

Thank you, thank you! said the country frog as it ran on the sandy beach and into the foaming waves.

How is this possible? Thought the city frog, this is opposite of what I studied! I must do something.

Before it could think of anything, the village one invited the city frog to the village. With its pride and arrogance at stake, the city amphibian decided to go.

When they reached the village, the city frog was devastated. With its hands pressed firmly on the chest, the question died in its eyes.

Teasing fate

2010-05-26T01:24:00.001+07:00

Damn! he said, and looked away.

That night, we walked to a village. It was dark and cold. Somebody kept talking about a torch that he forgot to carry. There were no batteries anyway, he consoled himself.

When we knew we could not walk any further, we lay down on the cold grass, watching stars through the leaves.

I think we’re lost, said a young boy, pretending not to be afraid.

Old men talked of women. They counted each one of them with names. When their memories failed them names, they recalled them with specialties that women were bestowed with.

It was too still, too peaceful and very cold.

Long ago, the old man began, a baby was born in the forest. It was a cold and dark night, like right now, only there is no baby being born now...Anyway, it was believed that when the baby was born, the spirits charted out the future of the newborn or it is more likely that the forest spirits knew the fate of the newborn. The forest spirits called each other that night. ‘What is it?’ called a spirit. ‘It’s a boy,’ came the reply. ‘What is his fate? What will he be?’ asked another spirit. There was a pause before came the reply, ‘Oh, he will be killed by a tiger...’ The father of the boy heard everything and was very worried and angry too. Anyway, wait...I don’t remember the story. Do you still want to hear?

Yes, they said.

I don’t remember the story too well. Anyway, the boy grew up to be a fine gentleman. On the day the forest spirits told of the boy’s end, the boy was travelling with his father and friends and had to hold a night in the wilderness under a cliff. Mmm...was it cliff or a cave or just under some trees like us? Anyway, the father was worried and could not sleep. He kept a close guard of his son. At around midnight, surely there came a tiger. Though paralyzed with fear, the father somehow gathered his strength and courage and fought the tiger and killed it with a knife. The next morning, the father took the boy to the dead animal and told the young boy about the forest spirits and the fate and the tiger. Hah! the boy said, this tiger? and kicked the tiger in the teeth. The tiger’s teeth wounded the boy’s foot. Gradually the wound became septic and ultimately the boy died...Another story?

There was no reply.

Living in quota

2010-05-19T23:09:00.001+07:00

That day, the board called me to a special meeting, offered me tea with two cream crackers balanced on the edge of a tiny saucer that held the cup, told some jokes among themselves, laughed like horses, praised me like a god, apologized endlessly, and fired me.

It was melodramatic. Not one of those movie-like though. Just plain melodramatic.

I tried to smile, pay attention, ask intelligent questions, but my eyes didn't focus properly. I could see that they were smiling too, but trying not to pay attention to me, dodging any irrelevant questions that I mumbled.

Out of several synonyms of fear, fucking scared was the most relevant one.

I lived my life with fear of death, then with fear of life itself. Then fear of treating the disease, the treatment where they pump poisons into the system to kill cancer cells and your hair falls out and you vomit for days at a time and the cure is nearly as deadly as the disease. That treatment. Then the fatigue of almost anything that I did or try to do as well as things that I tried not to do.

One rainy morning, I lay snuggled in bed, feeling my bald head, trying to think of my past, my friends, a wife who left me long time ago, my family... It was the first time I felt lonely and useless. All energy and optimism vanished, I could hardly get out of bed. The table was filled with food and drinks, yet not for me to eat or drink.

I lost track of time. The antidepressant and anti-anxiety drugs I took to lift me out of depression further threw me into frightful sleepless nights and horrifying days. It took time for medication to get into system and take effect, but how much time? When I consulted the hospital that happened every week or so, they only provided me their sympathy telling me to pray to all the deities of the mountains. It's not the treatment that can save me, they said, but the miracles.

All it took was just a word to change everything.

It happened with the truth that I was living my life on the quota, of which I had almost used up.

The Guardian

2010-05-19T15:07:00.000+07:00

You stand there,
under the afternoon sun,
sweat tickling down your face,
then onto the hard ground
that you stare.

You can hear the sound
of distant murmur of river,
meandering down the valley,
peacefully -
oblivious to mundane trifles.

The cow-herds sing amorous songs
to their lovers
on the other side.

A lone bird chirps
passionately
from a tree top,
its branches
swaying in the wind,
its shriveled leaves
falling on the ground.

Below there,
down by that hillside,
farmers stoop down
to gather crops;
wiping the sweat off her brows,
a young maiden sings a song.

Yet, there you are,
standing like a shadow of your own,
while the Guardian, your Guardian,
stands towering before you.

'Ho!' snarls the Guardian, your Guardian,
while you stand,
consumed in your thoughts.
His voice is loud and thick,
but you only manage
to scratch behind your ears,
and continue staring at the ground.

You see the Guardian's feet,
wrapped up in silken jewels.

You see your feet,
cracked, bare, hard and dark,
like the hard moldy earth.

'That...yes...there...'
the Guardian, your Guardian says,
pointing fixedly at a yonder hill,
'is it mine?'

You look sideways with downcast eyes,
'Yes, your lordship, that's yours...'
you fumble, taking a few steps back,
your voice trailing off into oblivion.

'Ah...' says the smiling Guardian, your Guardian,
'an abode shall I build there,
'glistening like the copper-coloured mountain...'
and the Guardian, your Guardian is gone.

Alone, you stand there
for a long, long time,
'why?' You ask yourself,
the answer hurts you,
only tears well up in your eyes.

A gentle breeze blows,
unsettling the dust
from the ground,
'this wind...this dust...'
you complain and rub your eyes,
'I'm not crying,' you say.

You must not cry,
yes, you must not,
you are stronger than you know,
but tear drops
fall on the ground.

You stand there,
lost, forsaken, hurt, ruined and deceived,
listening to that hollow cow-herd's song,
and the empty rustling of shriveled leaves.

Alone, you sob gently,
staring across ripples of mountains,
disappearing into twilight skyline.

A response by Dr. Karma Phuntsho

2010-05-19T13:05:00.000+07:00

Karma Phuntsho on May 18th, 2010 11:46 am (Bhutan Observer) to his article,

In response to Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse’s article, that I half-bakedly commented

Thank you all for responding to my short piece on the issue of our culture and language. I never intended it to be a one way discourse but a fruitful dialogue. So, I am pleased that many of you commented on what I wrote as a sequence to Rinpoche’s piece. Some of you even copied your comments twice to make sure that you made your point. Thanks. Although I could write this in Dzongkha, I stick to English as I am engaging in a debate which initiated in English for a largely English reading audience. Beside, the BO comments template does not seem to support the Dzongkha programme I use. So, forgive me.

The issue of cultural transformation is an important and urgent one, especially as we are making some of the most crucial decisions today on both the level of the state and the individual. As such, it deserves some critical thinking. I am fully aware that there are many out there who know much more and write much better than I can. Mine is just a modest contribution, partly to expose my own dilemma and confusion.

Hierarchy and Civil Servants
I am not myself a civil servant as many of you probably know. So, I have no stake here to either attack or defend them. However, I do not think that it is fair to single them out for criticism for a problem in which we all have a part to play. The problem of hierarchy is a societal and cultural one. It does not do any good to shift the blame on single group or profession of people. In fact, our civil service and their status have changed a great deal in the last decade or so. Some time back, people vied to be civil servants and civil service was equated with the government. This idea gave rise to a lot of problems. I shall not go into detail here. But such perception has changed and now many people are even leaving civil service in search of greener pastures. It is not true that civil servants doing desk jobs are the elites enjoying excessive privileges and perks.

There is a problem of excessive stratification in the Bhutanese society for which no specific group of people can be blamed. It is inevitable that there is some hierarchy in any socially organized group. The ideologies of Communism and Socialism which have argued for complete equality and comradeship have long failed disastrously. Even our own Buddhist tradition, which promotes ultimate equality and egalitarianism, is today embodied in institutions where things are anything but fair and egalitarian. So, instead of complaining about problems and finding scapegoats, our efforts should be to make society as just and fair as possible beginning in one’s own circles. Again, do not get me wrong. I am not accusing anyone in particular. Each one of us must do our share.

On the specific topic of kabney and patang some of you brought up, I am so impressed that some of you have rightly guessed that I am dying for a kabney . Let’s try not to digress to the person from policy, to the individuals from the issues.

Insignias such as scarves and swords may be to some extent reinforcing our notion of hierarchy and I am certainly against some of the recent inventions. But we must also know that the good must be acknowledged and rewarded in a progressive society and insignias such as red scarf and swords, as long as they are given on the basis of merit, are tokens of our appreciation of meritorious people. Also remember, with such symbols come responsibilities. They symbolize integrity, wisdom, kindness, leadership, etc. and those who wear them must live up to the standards. Beside, such honours are mostly the prerogative of the monarch. We can discuss things we have a say in and leave it to the King to decide about his own prerogatives.

If some still insist in scrapping all signs of inequality, how far do you suggest we go? Should even clerics give up their robes because Buddhist values have nothing to do with external and material outfit and they also inherently indicate hierarchy? Even if we were to uproot all the insignias of hierarchy we have, let’s not forgot that social inequalities surface in many other forms. The British Prime Minister may appear to be equal to everyone else in the way he dresses or talks to people. Yet, look closer and even the tie or suit he is wearing or the accent he speaks with reveals a great deal about his social background. The insignias we have generally mark only official ranks publicly and do not subtly indicate family background or economic class.

Another point to remember while discussing the rejection of traditional hierarchy is social cohesion. With the rise of egalitarianism and individualism, we are already seeing an erosion of respect for elders, parents and teachers. The traditional hierarchy is in a way the social fabric and if we want to change, we better think through properly of what can best replace this social cement.

Culture
We must all accept that all cultures are fluid and dynamic. Cultures evolve. I do not argue for keeping our culture static or holding on to outdated practices. The old ploughs and yokes are giving their way to new tractors and power tillers. It is not sensible to hold on to the ploughs for the sake of culture. For many reasons, the imported machines are better than traditional practices, especially if farming has to be made a viable profession. Similarly, traditional chimney-less fire places have been replaced in many places by smokeless stoves. Night prowling is dying, as it probably should, under the pressure of social and technological changes. Melamine and porcelain crockery is fast replacing traditional bamboo and wooden utensils all over Bhutan. The list of changes I have seen just in the last few decades is long and the speed of change is staggering. And there is much more change in the intangible culture than in tangible artefacts.

At such times, what we direly need is to make serious choices based on our long term future. Yes, we have to seek a creative change, as Rinpoche stresses, but the challenge is not merely in improving and fine tuning our own things. In fact, there is not as much problem in retaining the sector of traditional arts and crafts as in the new ideas and things we are indiscriminately importing from outside. It is not so much change we must fear but what change brings.

Is coke better than butter tea? Should house-size billboards deck our roadsides? Are acrylic paint containers worthy substitutes for traditional bamboo buckets? Are birthday celebrations and modern wedding ceremonies making our society any better? Should compound bow replace bamboo bow? Do we encourage people to use chemical fertilizer over manure and chemical paint and colour over mineral and vegetable paint and dye? Should trouser be allowed in public places and offices? Should tsechu programmes include some rigsar songs and dances? There are many such questions which confront us.

Surely, we cannot have one universal and singular answer to all of them. Our solutions will have to be specific to the problems, sometimes a complete yes, sometimes an utter no and yet other times somewhere in between. I don’t think we can also leave the solution to the choice of the people because not everyone is farsighted. Nor will everyone make decisions in the interest of the collective whole. The state has to take the responsibility for the long run and make tough decisions. It did so and continues to do so in many areas. It was in this respect, I was saying that we and our leaders have done well in balancing modernity and tradition. I am not defending anyone or hoping to win any favours in saying this.

If we are to stop our culture from declining, the state will have to make more tough decisions. We, as responsible citizens, must also make thoughtful choices keeping the greater good in perspective. Let me illustrate this with the example of the environment. Our ecological success, which the world admires, was relatively an easy achievement. First, there was a lot of virgin forest thanks to traditional beliefs about the environment. Secondly, our population is low and more and more are migrating to urban centres to the advantage of conservationists. More importantly, when the laws regarding protected areas and forest coverage were enforced, except for a few mine and quarry owners, the victims were mostly the subservient rural farmer. There was no real opposition and the rest of world is on our side giving support. Now compare that to the conservation of culture. Firstly, our culture is rapidly changing. We are at critical juncture going through unprecedented socio-political changes. The tide of globalisation is sweeping across the world enhanced by technological advances. Most people think the grass is greener on the other side. Thus, the opposition to conservation is very strong coming from many sections of the society.

Should we fail to remain different but join the global bandwagon, there will be nothing left to distinguish us as a nation. Some of you may say that there is nothing wrong in doing so. Ask a Tibetan or a Sikkimese about how they feel before you make up your mind. The tragic stories of these Himalayan neighbours are very telling. Of course, politically we are in a different situation than these two erstwhile Buddhist neighbours are. However, in a highly globalised world where the market is the de facto ruler, much of the cultural changes which occurred to them will apply to us. The external forces are indeed ruthless, we cannot be complacent. We must do more and better, without being laid back.

Language
I would have liked to say a lot more on language in my piece if only for the limited space in newspaper. However, Lopen Pema Wangdi has now more or less effectively captured the thoughts I also have about our perception of the national language. Thus, I would urge the reader to read his article Why can’t Bhutanese be Bhutanese in Kuensel.

On the issue of an emerging literary language and its struggles with new terms, particularly for foreign ideas and items, almost all other languages apart from English are in the same boat. German and French did not start with a word for computer, neither did Chinese, Japanese or any other language in Asia. They coined terms, loan words or purely original ones, and made them gain currency. Why can’t we do so with Dzongkha? I have no problem using glog rig for computer. It is quite well established now. We cannot argue through the etymology that not everything electronic is computer and thus drop the term. Not everything that computes is a computer in English either. Not everything on a desk top is a desktop. I think on the whole about 80% of the new Dzongkha terms are acceptable and 50% have successfully gained currency. Those which sound odd and could not gain currency will die a natural death and people will find a new loan word or colloquial term.

Meanwhile, we must think seriously about the pedagogy and one suggestion that films could be dubbed is a wonderful idea if there are no copyright and licensing issues.

What we must also not forget when we talk about a unifying language such as Dzongkha is the majority of the Bhutanese population today. The rural people, who still make up about two-third of the population, should be taken into the equation. How can we sideline our parents, siblings, relatives, who did not go to an English language school? How can we exclude our traditional elders from the national discourse in parliament and other official forums? As it is, our electoral regulations have already insulted these grassroots members of our society. Bias for Western education and against traditional upbringing is already unacceptably strong. Going any further would mean an utter rejection of our past and heritage.

I spend a great deal of my time travelling in rural parts of Bhutan and I am quite astonished to find how well Dzongkha has progressed, especially since the election campaigns of 2008. Even in the most unexpected places villagers speak good Dzongkha. Thus, Dzongkha is playing its role as a unifying language and giving people a lingua franca. Of course, many people, especially those who are not native speakers may find it difficult to speak it as proficiently as one could but that is understandable.

In comparison, far less percentage of people who graduate from colleges speak English with equal proficiency. Given 7 periods of classes in English, our standard of English is dismal. But we do not have to be ashamed of it, because English is not our language. One must, however, be ashamed if one does not have fluency in the national language and still claim to be a very well educated and patriotic citizen.

Finally, the link between Dzongkha and our Buddhist heritage. Dzongkha belongs to the Central Bodish group, the same linguistic sub-group as Chokey, which means these languages share a great deal of similarity although the two languages are linguistically considered different. This makes learning or understanding Chokey much easier once someone knows Dzongkha and vice versa. In fact, literary Dzongkha is largely Chokey. So, it is not at all true that having Dzongkha is not useful for learning the rich Buddhist literature we have in Chokey.

On the other hand, English belongs to the Indo-European language family, very far from any of the Bhutanese languages and Chokey, except Nepali. There is no common ground between English and Chokey/Dzongkha. Thus, the cultural conceptions behind these languages are very different. Moreover, English is a language heavily laden with Judo-Christian ideas. Many people in Bhutan regularly use words such as sin, marriage, faith to render local ideas without knowing the subtle theistic connotation of the words.

In the same way, it is very difficult for a translator to capture the ideas of Buddhist Chokey terms such as dam tshig, rnam rtog, don, byang chub sems, stong pa nyid in any English word. Thus, English translation of Buddhist text have always suffered the bipolar problems of either being faithful but arbitrary and incomprehensible or being comprehensible but simplistic and superficial.

With this linguistic and cultural gap, I have often wondered why some Bhutanese youth instead of learning the original Chokey prayers chant prayers in English translation. What horrified me was when even a government function concluded with prayers in English while our monks stood by to watch at the GNH education conference last year.

I must insist that it would not take that long to learn Chokey or Dzongkha and the effort will be rewarding. None of English translation can produce the same effect as the original Chokey verses. There are many reasons as to why the original words and word order of mantras and prayers are preserved and considered powerful.

To get the same degree of effect, new poetic verses will have to be written in English using its own syntactical beauty. Some lamas have tried that and certainly for the Anglophone Buddhists, that is the way to go instead of mimicking the Asians. Equally, the Bhutanese should find our own way instead of mimicking the Westerners.

I hope this will encourage some people to work harder to help our language and culture. Someone has asked what works have so far been done on the issue of our culture and languages. Beside, the regular articles in the newspapers, the Journal of Bhutan Studies is a good place to look. Many international scholars also write in a variety of international journals. We, the Bhutanese youth, must expand our learning horizons even on Bhutan issues, particularly with easy access possible through internet both in English and Chokey. You may read my own works on these issues in my articles, Two Ways of Learning in Bhutan, Echoes of Ancient Ethos, The Story of Bhutan’s Spiritual Ecology, Wrestling with change and some others.

Following the sacred cows

2010-05-16T01:00:00.001+07:00

Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche's article that appeared in Kuensel, Many questions, a few answers, seems to work up some of the Bhutanese minds, and rightly so! The 'sacred cow' points raised by Rinpoche may not be too sacred in the end, but HE has done the job to engage ourselves in debates and arguments. I am not much of a thinking person myself given my inadequate intellectual capacity in this and other such fields. However, I ended up browsing my thoughts.

A recent retort to Rinpoche's article by Dr. Karma Phuntsho, A response to Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse's article, that appeared in Bhutan Observer's website on 14 May, was a point well made that rendered further food for thoughts, which is now more of a burden to my incapacitated mind.

What do you make of Rinpoche's article? Are Rinpoche's sacred cow points not too sacred as stated by Dr. Karma? Are the issues raised by Rinpoche too blatant and out of point?

One thing for sure, the issues raised by Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse are not the real problems. They are just some baskets carrying other problems.

Is the progress of a nation so much like a snake shedding off old skins?

The first point Dr. Karma disapproved of Rinpoche's article was the Laotian quote which states that too much education makes you unhappy. The main thing we must keep in mind about this proverb is 'too much'. Dr. Karma misread the proverb, and most probably read it as ignorance is bliss, which is a complete ignorance on the Doctor's part.

In this materialist world, ambition is a by-product of greed. There is no denying that. As opposed to Dr Karma’s view that there is a ‘fine’ line between the two, I would rather say there is a thin line given the current situation and time. Dr. Karma talks only about letting go of gho and kira and zhugdrel traditions. What about kabneys and patags? What about Tshoglams? What about the tradition of doma eating? What about our tradition of time management? What about office culture? It all comes down to attitude in the end. By attitude, I mean mentality too.

It may be wrong of Rinpoche to assume Hindi as a failed attempt to make it the national language of India and immediately linking it with Dzongkha. But Rinpoche is not wrong in that either. He merely suggests that English must be used alongside Dzongkha as a medium of communication in the Parliament to make points clear during parliamentary deliberation instead of pressing too much importance on the use of Dzongkha.

Now, Dr. Karma is equally or more wrong in comparing Dzongkha with German, a language so rich and a major European language spoken (and written/read too) by millions of people. German is a rich language because it evolved itself with time. The case with Dzongkha is different. We are forcing Dzongkha to evolve as a result of our immediate need for terms and expression as more foreign words creep into our daily conversation. Log rig computer is one such example. First we were made to believe ‘log rig’ is the computer. It was not enough as log rig is a term for any electrical or electronic appliance. There was this joke in passing one time where the then DDC attempted to translate carom-board to Dzongkha and came up with zhongdey phiriri, which sounded stupid and useless at the same time.

The point I am trying to make is, Dzongkha as a national language is a failed language from the start. We did away with Sumtag long time ago. Out of eight class periods a day in schools, Dzongkha got just one – meaning, around 40 minutes a day. Too less to develop a national language, I should think. Dzongkha lopons taught less lashed more, munching doma and reeking of alcohol. The government then attempted to promote Dzongkha by organizing Dzongkha stage plays where the winner was given a hefty sum of money. The tradition is still practiced today, this time the film with best Dzongkha dialogues wins the money and the best Dzongkha film is archived in some producer’s closet. There is nothing wrong with that. Encouragement is good. But why not promote Dzongkha in some other ways?

How many films do we produce a year? What percent of the population watch Dzongkha films per day that will really propel Dzongkha into its targeted development? How many of us read Dzongkha books, articles, news? We have cable Television in almost every home with Hindi soaps/movies and English programs. Why not go a step ahead and dub foreign language films into Dzongkha and release it in our local theaters? Why don't the government encourage opening multiplex cinema in major towns? Why don't we dub television programs into Dzongkha (with dual language/subtitles facilities) before we telecast to our homes? Why don't the government simplify Dzongkha as a language instead of complicating it? Lack of funds? But we can afford McKinsey...

If we were to forgo the English translation and read the Dzongkha version, how many of us would really read or understand our very own Constitution? Instituting Dzongkha as a national language is one thing, but to really understand it is what would matter the most. Even before we learned a fair deal of vocabulary of our own dialect, we were made to learn English from the very start treating Dzongkha somewhat like the other sister from another parents.

Anyway, some questions for Dr. Karma Phuntsho as listed below which he may never see or read my blog to answer:

How can we preserve our culture and traditions without resigning ‘to the pressure of time or external forces’?
Who else communicate in English besides ’some elites and youth who increasingly prefer to use English as their medium of communication’? Are not most of our official correspondents done in English?
Is ‘the exposure to appreciate the finesse of Zen style or the wealth to incorporate sanitary facilities’ necessary to understand the importance of sanitary? Who among us get more of such exposure?
Why is there the ‘reluctance on the part of most people to invest even a tenth of the time they devote to English’ on Dzongkha? Who is the failure, the people or the government? And why have they failed?
Why is Dzongkha necessary to realize our most beloved GNH?
Since the not so ’sacred cows’ are debated constantly, what are your findings?

Senses awakened

2010-05-13T06:32:00.001+07:00

I see it clearly;
senses, soaked and wineful,
I see that light
clear as alcohol in a glass jar.

Dreaming, I am fully awake,
I long to sleep more,
perhaps to dream more -
senses alert, conscious, sedated...

Reality is just an illusion,
created by lack of alcohol;
Illusion is the shadow of the fumes.

Black and white

2010-04-20T04:36:00.001+07:00

It was deep into the night when I woke up and asked, ‘are black and white colors?’ I knew then and there that I had too much to drink before I lost my consciousness and fell asleep with an empty beer bottle as pillow and a can of beer still in my hands, warm and uninteresting.

Like flash of lightning, it appeared and disappeared – both the question and the answer. For a while, I thought I knew it, I could even feel it – the pride that came with knowing that we seek to know. But then, it was just a repetition of questions that merged into multitude of irrelevancies.

Then for the next half hour or so, the image of a woman from behind kept recurring like a bad dream. There was something strange in that woman’s behind, shoved mercilessly into a tight skirt. It at once reminded me of Fernando Botero’s ‘Venus’, then the image of Fernando Botero’s Venus bothered me for a long while.

‘Are black and white colors?’ The question again. It was not even important.

There, people toiled their life to find the meaning of life and to build a ladder for everyone to climb to what was termed as ‘empty’, which also meant happiness – eternal, yes, that was the difference. But money can buy happiness, someone defended. Maybe pleasure, not happiness. Another said.

‘Is zero a number?’ I heard myself asked. Clearly, a result of excessive drinking and too much Bob Dylan. When indulged in both, neither made sense.

Under the lamp post

2010-04-11T06:57:00.001+07:00

It was dark. Moths circled a glow of light, flickering on the lamp post. A blind beggar sat on the pavement, smiling and raising his hands in darkness. A few good people threw a coin or two on the ground, whereby the blind singer felt the ground towards the sound of the falling coins.

Far across the street, a group of youngsters stood, leaning on the wall filled with graffiti and dirt, laughing and hitting each other over a joke. A woman nearby shouted angry words into the phone tucked in between her ear and shoulder, waving her hands in the air.

Alongside the blind beggar, people talked of guns and explosions and how some fifteen or so people were dead and many wounded following a fight over democracy and other rights. Everyone seemed to be right these days, observed a young man, but people in power had more rights. When in doubt, they always defended and justified their mistakes. ‘This is life...this is politics...’

Blood on the streets. Life in the alley. Dark times.

Without love or care,
I live my life in darkness,

The blind beggar sang.

A little boy stopped and watched the blind beggar. Someone called a name. The little boy tossed a coin into the beggar’s hands, smiled and ran into the darkness...

You talk of pain and suffering,
without them, do we not live?

When in doubt, think of me
and you'll be fine,
When you're in darkness, think of me,
and you will see light in the dark
when you've lost your way in confusion,
think of me...