aromatic memories

I was dressing up for office, when something in my cupboard reminded me of times in my college dorm room. I picked the kira, dug in my face and took a deep breath. It was a sweet yet tangy smell.

I was back in the dorm room, amid posters of models, actors and bands, and REM's Imitation of Life was playing on a box-like stereo, borrowed from a senior.

It was a flash. The short but powerful time in my life, of a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly. I held the kira for few seconds longer. My heart radiating into a perfect smile on my lips. The good friends, the tiny town, the village folks, the evenings at their impoverished homes, sitting near the crackling fire and chewing on corn on the cob. Then there was this foggy narrow road leading to college where I'd meet my classmates and the crushes. All were all contained within that one whiff of fragrance.

I stood a second longer, unable to tear from the memory and sniffed for more. But I was running late for office. The day turned out to be perfect. It was raining but nothing could shroud the glow and the contentment I felt inside. I was living a life which made so much sense. The traffic did not matter, the song on the radio was melodious and I was singing along. I had the key to happiness.

Another time, it was spring and healthy green bushes in the office garden along the path to canteen were bursting with flowers. Another whiff of memory. I couldn't resist it, so I bent down and took a deep breath and lingered for a second longer. The tea, for which I was visiting canteen, was forgotten.

I was back in the remote village of Sibsoo in Samtse and I'd just started school. We'd put on dangling pink earrings made from the flowers. In school we'd sneak in green hot chillies and hoard it, along with salt, under the wooden desks. In the midday sleep-inducing sun, when the teacher was busy up in front, we'd simply sweat at the back, eyes wide open and attentive to salt melting inside the tiny but super hot jitsi ema. And to think we were only five or six years old.

Then there was the Nepali class which taught us a song about a crow and a sly fox. An earthquake shook us out of bed and had a manic elderly person shouting naka, naka, naka... prancing about on the ground, as I rubbed off rest of the sleep from my eyes.

The memories offered no names or faces but only forms. Yet the fragrance unlocked memories of green chilies, the scorching sun, the blackboard illustration of fox and crow and dusty wooden floors on which we sat. 

And today as I get a whiff of rain drenched earth from my office window, I simply wonder what I'd be reminded of later in life when I smell the rain and earth again. Perhaps this story I am sharing. Perhaps the children's book with earthy tones that I am reviewing, or the leaves of the ivy vines dangling from the window grill. Or perhaps it will remind me of my editor playing When the Children Cry on guitar or my son trying to catch raindrops with his little paws. 

I have no idea. The fragrances seem to box in and lock bits and pieces of life on its own will. But I am sure if I ever remember these bits and pieces they will turn into a particular scent, which I can call my own and no one can ever smell it. It is my happiness.             

Corporal punishment

I've never given the controversial corporal punishment as much thought as I did when parliamentarians discussed it passionately while deliberating on the Child Care and Protection Bill recently. It made me remember that one semester in my entire schooling life, which was the most torturous of all.

I was twelve years old and, from what I gather, the teacher picked on me and it wasn't on disciplinary grounds. Coming from the capital and a better-rated school was the reason or so it seemed.

“Why did you transfer to a primary school in the south, from a junior high school in the capital,” he would ask.

Did I answer it? I honestly don't remember. But I remember the thin bamboo sticks that would splinter away on my palm. The cold pinching slap on my palm, which instantly became pale and, a few seconds later, turned red and hot. I'd never cry. The students would watch in fear.

Every morning I'd watch out for him. But he never missed a class. The mental torture was what got me the most. Maybe that's why I failed in almost all subjects, including English, that semester.

My parents transferred me to a different school but it wasn't because of the teacher, which is the most ironic part. The devil in disguise was the best math teacher, at least according to parents. Not once did any parent in the small community complain against him. Rather they'd side with him.

Now when I reflect on it, I still feel I was a victim. There was no way I would become a math whiz that way.

There were times when other teachers flogged me for forgetting my homework and I felt I deserved it. But in the maths teacher’s case I did not. But I never complained. Who'd listen? I accepted it as it is, especially because we'd hear stories from adults about how worse it was during their times.

Things are changing. Children know their rights now. The education ministry's code of conduct for teachers prohibits corporal punishment. But, like the discussion during the national assembly session, there is no consensus among the different laws related to child care and protection.

The penal code provides that loophole, which gives teachers, (who fit under person responsible for general care and supervision category), the right to use force and on disciplinary grounds.

Some parliamentarians have qualms over spelling out corporal punishment in the childcare act.

The pro-corporal punishment parliamentarians feel abolishing corporal punishment is a western concept and does not fit in a society where it was a tradition to use force to discipline children. The furious manifestations of the deities were evoked at the parliament. For the good of the people, the gods take up force and fury, said a parliamentarian.

Yes, I still do fear my math teacher and the dzongkha teacher, but it is the one lesson that my father taught me which had a greater impact in making me a better person than all the floggings that I received. I was only nine years old then.

The kitchen and toilet of our home were located outside the main structure. At the break of dawn, I was up with a terrible stomach-ache. Everybody was sound asleep. I was scared to go out in the dark. So I simply stepped out and emptied my tummy outside near the door, and went back to sleep.

When my father got up and went outside, he saw it and shouted who was responsible for that. I thought I was up for a beating. But I went up to him and explained why I did it outside. He simply grinned, patted me and said, “Good. Honest is what I expect you to be.”

WORDS


 

Swift as thought

sharper than knife

are words

Words that break and make

words that tend

a wounded soul

Or rip apart

what was whole

Expression and thoughts

given meanings

are words 

Snowy

This story is based on true life events of animals living in and around the expressway, Chang Jalu and Chang Olakha, Thimphu, which is experiencing a construction boom 


Snowy was not as white as snow. Not since the heavy construction machineries rolled on into the paddy fields, dug it and planted iron rods from which a concrete jungle grew.

He was once white, but now his hair was matted with earth, grime and cement. Just the other day he overheard his owner say, "Maybe we should shear him." But Snowy wasn't a sheep, he was a sixteen-year-old Lhasa Apso.

On his neck was a dark brown leather strap, but despite being a pet Snowy had the spirit of a wild dog. His guardians never kept him cooped in and he loved running amuck the green fields and the banks along the green blue river. But that was ages ago, or so it seems.

When his farmer guardians brought him home for the first time, he was merely a month old puppy. He could barely understand the human language. The farmer's educated daughter had held him on her lap the entire journey. The daughter was visiting her parents. She lived in Punakha.  When they pulled over at the edge of what looked like a cliff overlooking a settlement, the first thing Snowy noticed was the lush greenery. When the daughter called out 'ama' Snowy's attention was drawn to a tanned woman at the roadside. Her lips wide apart giving a peek to doma stained teeth. He took an instant liking to this hardy woman, who resembled the sleek woman who'd stroked his fur the entire journey.

The years rolled blissfully. He developed friendship with the cattle, the villagers and the wide expanse of fields. But, something happened. Suddenly there were no green fields. The earth, which remained uncultivated became hard. Giant machines were ploughing through and soon vehicles were zooming through what was once paddy fields.

Now, he lived in the middle of chaos. His world no longer made sense.

Just the other day, Snowy faced a near death experience. Like a person with unsettled mind, he'd been roaming around trying to make sense. He saw Dema, a cow he'd grown up with, across the road. He called her named and sprang forward only to be blasted by a blaring noise of a car honk. It was so loud it took him by surprise. And he blindly darted forward towards Dema, who looked on with fear in her eyes.

Soon there were screeches of tyres and a heavy clash of metal on metal.

When the first vehicle missed Snowy, the other trying to overtake the first had screeched to a halt when Snowy appeared suddenly. The car following the second one lost control and hit it.

The drivers were cursing the dog. The traffic on the expressway came to a halt. Shattered glasses were on the road.

"You're lucky you didn't get hit," retorted Dema. "What were you doing anyway?"

Still recovering from shock Snowy was at a loss for words.  Soon, sirens pierced the air.  A limp body was dragged out of a vehicle and loaded on to the ambulance.

"I was coming your way," said Snowy. "I don't understand what's happening. Why can't I do what I want to do and live like before?"

"It isn't the place anymore," said Dema. As she started to move, Snowy noticed pain in her face.  She limped and each step was agonizing for her.

He looked down and noticed that one of Dema's hooves was hanging by, what seems like a thread. Her injured hoof was plastered in blood.  How cruel can life be? She'd lost her calf only few weeks back to an exposed electric wire.

"I wasn't as fast or as lucky as you were," she said. "This is the price I paid for trying to cross the road."

Dema had seen a patch of greens across the road, a treat was was difficult to come by. Her once farmer guardians rarely cared for her. They'd given up farming for real estate business.  Even after being hit by a speeding motor, the want for grass was bigger than her hurting hoof. But when Dema finally managed to get on the other side, the patch was a huge green plastic sheet, the corners of which were planted firmly in the ground by moving machines.

COMING BACK


it is a wonder how a year can get over so fast. just checked in today and noticed that the last time i posted was the same day last year. have been writing. have been growing. nothing stands still and i can feel the acute insufficiency of time. things that need to be done gets second priority and are often dismissed. hanging out with frens, playing snooker, bar hopping, talking about love, relationship, work and some crude jokes in between are ordeals that i willingly go through everyday. Home gets clubbed in with the second priority list and more than often guilt creeps in. i should quit being selfish.

back to square one.


10 months of vigorous training.

My life has come to a stand still. I find myself in the same position everyday and fail to grow. I fail to take a step forward.