Smart not Hard

Once below a time, a man had a hard time meeting his daily amenities. He was industrious. So industrious that he had little or no time for rest. Rest was waste to him.

His hard work didn’t pay him the successes and wealth he deserved.

He landed himself dead tired on his bed at home. Sleepless night would ensue, his thoughts lost in thoughts. After an infinite blinks, he would have a nap or two.

His penury perplexed him. He wasn’t as successful as he had envisaged. All through his life, he led a melancholic and poor life, just fit for rats and the like.

He resigned to himself believing in his karma and , ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them’, echoed resiliently on his semi-deaf ears. A tear drop on the floor would usually break his trance.

He was sure that a bad karma was at work. He felt increasingly tired and loathed his life.

And at 65, he signed his last looking like a nonagenarian.

On a funeral pyre, his face told everything: he died of exhaustion and much sorrow. His face wasn’t peaceful. There, on the funeral pyre laid a man defeated by life. His body was reduced to ashes. He was history now, gone into oblivion without knowing one simple truth (and secret) of life: It’s not how hard you work; it’s how smart you work.

My Beautiful Ordeal

The place is beautiful. The people here are beautiful. The stray dogs that visit our campus are beautiful. ‘Beautiful’ is the only word I can think of. It is a preternatural setting, like an artist’s stroke of brush creating world beyond this. I occasionally single myself, all alone, sitting on the porch overlooking my school. The children play games; some of them invented by their fragile mind. The games they play with their flip-flops seems too complicated to comprehend. I try to construct the meaning but I fail. I don’t know who wins or how the game is won.

Children are beautiful. And I am here for them. To be their guardian. Their role model. Idol.

I am some 400 kilometers away from home and 5 days ‘official’ walk away from the nearest motorable road. I feel I am far away from civilization. I long for home and my cute little sister. It is her bubbly face that I miss the most. I came here on my own accord. I trotted along the dusty path with my new-found colleagues, hiked passes and mountains, almost half dead with heavy backpack, almost doubling its weigh every second.

I regret choosing that school time and again. I curse myself in silent anguish. My colleagues comfort me and I think it is just transitory. Everything will pass… like a dream. But no! I think of my best friend placed in a higher secondary school near a road point. What a lucky human, I murmur. I try to comfort myself silently. I smile and crack silly jokes with my traveling companions.

I tell myself: it’s good for your health, your heart: walking and getting tired is a healthy exercise… sweating is good. Drink more water and I drink gallons. I try to recall lessons from my college days about fitness and exercise. This kind of rigorous walk is going to make you fit. At the back of my mind, I fear my heart may be strained as I can hear its beating till my neck and ear. ‘Dhoo-wak dhoo-wak’, it goes with uncompromising gusto. I need more oxygen, the air seems too less.

I scold myself woefully, ‘You dolt, you tried to be spunky that placement time, now look at you.’ That self scolding felt too pestilential to be true. I trot ahead a phantasmagoric path foreboding a bear or a branch or a rolling stone. But the sanctified mule track gives me solace concomitantly.

I can see my colleagues’ brow raised at my waylaying. They understand my plight and console me. I curse my backpack and my heavy trekking boot. I am the slowest. I am not aware of my fitness. I doubt my fitness.

The sweats marathon down my face palpably. My legs ache a million needles; pleading for not-so-well deserved rest. I allude my companions for rest by limping and rapid breathing. A mountain pass that usually take three hours to ascend the summit takes about four and a half due to my dawdling.

We reach one village. The hostess is so kind and her hospitality too commendable. I get my well deserved rest. I slumber down as soon as my head touches the husk-made pillow. I wake up a dreamless sleep and I am jolted back to my reality by the interior design of the house. I am no more at home. Or in the concrete building. We pay our gratitude to our hostess in the form of money. I silently feel that our audacity for barging in her house too late at night and making her cook food can never be appeased by our small soelra of insignificant amount of money. I hesitate to take out Nu. 150 from my wallet construing the minuteness a substitute for her generosity.

I plod along up and down a snaking footpath halfheartedly. I think countless thoughts. It makes me doubly tired. What stands out strikingly among my thoughts is an empathetic thought of how our servants of the government keep up with the hardships of daily rural ‘civil’ life. The way they accept their life and serve the rural hamlets is beyond my brain could picture. I empathize the pains and sweats. I don’t want to think that I have to stay ‘there’ for some years. I may not be able to move my legs. I won’t reach my school otherwise. I can’t imagine how I am supposed to stay there.


And then I reach ‘there’. I reach here. Now, it’s ‘here’. I am standing in front of the entrance gate. I can see the school. Then I say, ‘It’s so beautiful’. I think of Switzerland but it’s not. I go in. The leafless trees seem to bow before me for my great accomplishment and sacrifice. The roofs rattle against the winter breeze. I take that sound for applause. The sky is chillingly clear. It’s almost 6 pm. I nearly collapse.

I use my last packet of energy to reach at one of my colleague’s home to rest and to revamp my energy. All seems so harsh and hard to get. Everything is precious here. Nothing is wasted.

I give a deep sigh of relief. I am where I should belong for some years. It’s evanescence. I was right there in my cemented room watching a movie and I am here now, sitting near an hearth in a smoke-stained kitchen trying to put in some firewood. And strangely enough, I find this a piece of heaven. I forget all the hardships encountered during the journey.

As night sets in by seconds, my ordeal goes packed with yesterday. Tomorrow is new, I say this to myself.

My Own Hallucination

Students from various schools in Thimphu congregated at Changlimithang stadium by seven o’clock in the morning to celebrate an occasion. I was one amongst thousands at the stadium, and weather was just perfect with cool morning breeze gently touting my sleepy face. It was a historic occasion and  I was eager to participate.

After a while, I don’t recall the exact time; the chief guest started delivering his speech. We stood still on our feet; head slightly bent, with hands behind our back in a respectful posture- listening to the speech. Little did we know how hot that particular day would become; it was unbearably hot by fore-noon.

My poor legs were in agony and I desperately wanted to sit down, but as I could clearly see the chief guest standing on his feet and delivering the speech; I was determined to endure my pain out of sheer respect. It took two hours or more for the speech to end and we’re ordered to sit down on the ground by our principal. I was delighted with that, but our heads were still exposed to the unforgiving heat of the sun. The celebration itself took another few hours more, and in the scorching sun most of us were quite dizzy and exhausted. Sunburn came much later that day.

Then after what seems like eternity to me; the celebration ended and students dispersed lethargically from the stadium. I was very giddy and extremely thirsty, and wanted to do nothing more than to have some sip of icy-cold water. As I peered towards the main gate, to my delight, holding a bottle of cold water was my maid-servant Yanki and she seems to be looking for me in the crowd of student that was passing by the gate. I sprinted towards her joyfully shouting her name as fast as my aching legs could allow—for a nice soothing drink.

I dashed happily toward her and yelled out her name loudly again, and when I was just about to get near the main gate her sight fell on me at once and she gave me her usual lazy smile. Without saying another word I grabbed the bottle and gently pulled towards me, but to my utter shock and dismay- she didn’t let it go, in fact she was tightening her grip on the bottle.

Annoyed beyond measure, I glared at her face panting. By then I didn’t have any energy to yell at her, so I said nothing. A moment ago Yangki was standing in front of me and now as I looked closely at her for a second time, I was staring at a complete stranger’s face, and she had a puzzled expression on her face. Oh my god, I couldn’t believe my eyes; it was just a hallucination but very vivid one, and Yangki was never there. I was equally shocked and puzzled as she, and I let go off her bottle at once. I was mortified and I quickly apologized, and speed-walked away from the gate.

And then, as I looked outside from the gate, I saw my family except Yanki - she went back to her village a few months ago. I was very happy to see them and I demanded a chilled Frooty which I devoured it empty in a few gulps.

A Noble Job of Criticism

The world simply cannot stand without criticism. The world would be dark and grey without it. Strong men need it to nurture them. The weak ones need it to attack others.

Despite its barbaric nature and the emotional trauma it bring along, criticisms have a vital role. If you observe carefully, criticisms have positive impact in our life.

Criticisms, be it positive or negative, has a great bearing in our life.

Ever wondered why Japan’s automobile industry is so successful? Thanks to criticism. Japanese took it positively and turned Japanese cars (Junk cars as it were called then) into one of the finest cars in the world. There are many examples of criticisms bearing positive results.

Well, it all boils down to one’s own take on it. It depends on one’s attitude and how well one can handle it. Criticisms can kill people. So, take it positively. You have just one life to live.  

It is also true that it hurts. It pricks and pains. What good things don’t? A medicine meant to save life comes with a needle. And it pricks and pains. But be grateful that it saves life. It is also true with criticisms. It can be medicine if you know how to take it.

When I was in my high school, people used to call me names which I am sure some people would still remember me solely by those names. I admit that I was hyperactive and never bothered to act in a ‘normal’ way. Society here loves people with reserved nature who don’t do much not-so-expected things. A few would say it on my face while others, behind my back. I was looked down clearly as a bird of a feather that would not flock together. People diagnosed my eccentric behavior as stemming from my deranged mind. I was a mental patient to them. And you know the names that would ensue.

I didn’t give much thought to it initially. As time went by, many people including my close ones started saying those things about me. It hit me like a bit of a shocker. They were my well wishers. And it forced me to think it over. And I gave a good thought to it.

Nothing seemed wrong with me. I admit I was bit impulsive and a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. I loved fun and friends. But for my friends and others that was not it. I was mentally unstable to them. It shook me and I started being unhappy with myself. My self-esteem and my self-confidence started hitting rock bottom. I even went to visit a psychiatrist.

And there, people visiting psychiatric chamber are mildly stigmatized. I went in and spelled my woes and possible mental diseases. The doctor in the chamber asked me a few questions, nodding and saying ‘oh! I see’, ‘ah’, ‘yes’ and ‘go on’. And he ruled me out that I am … not a mental patient!  I wasn’t confident in his diagnosis. I argued with him and told him that my friends and most people find me a way weird. I asked him to do more tests. I was sure I had some mental problem. What they told me seemed so real and true. But the doctor told me something which is etched in my brain; ‘People will tell you one hundred and one things. Don’t believe every word they say. And you are fine young boy. Take pride in that.’ I finally believed in him.

I took it positively and mended my way. I made criticisms my friend. I was hurt no more. I am ‘normal’ now.

In some ways, I think they were right in saying those things. But what matters more is how you tackle those criticisms. Heed to it and be a better person! 

Love’s labour Almost Lost

Stories like mine should never be called a love story. But it can qualify for a deception of an innocent soul. I am an innocent soul here. Or, at least I claim to be. You be the judge.

Just like any boy-meet-girl kind of story; I met her in my college days. We were in the same college. I developed an instant liking for her. Yes, I took some time to win her winsome heart. That was done rather fairly well.

She became my world, my sole reason to live or die. It happened sooner than I realized it. She was reason enough to make my day a heaven or a ravishing hell. I became too devoted to her. I nearly became her guardian angel. I was too faithful to her that I willingly ignored all the girls in my college. I almost worshipped her.

I found her too innocent. Her face was too pale and cherubic that I almost believed that she was an angel dropped from heaven just for me. Her cherubic face was the last thing I could forget. Her cuddly gesture and a childlike expression were something I saw for the first time in my life. I was, needless to say, so mesmerized by her.

It is dangerous to fall in love. That is what people say. It is dangerous if you don't know how to love. It is dangerous if you are so naive. It is dangerous if you are governed by your emotions. It is dangerous if you are a fool. I was naive and an emotional fool too.

Her past was as pure as it can be: no boy in her life, no kisses and no intimacy. It was all first time with me or so she used to tell me. I believed her. I believed every word her luscious lips spoke.

Her phone would beep countless times with unknown numbers. She would be engaged on call for countless minutes. She would go home on leave. She would be out with her friends. Even when I got her on the other line, she would say, she’s busy with assignments. In fact, she had very little time for me. But it was all okay with me. I am an understanding and empathizing type. I didn't suspect anything or never wanted to. I feared it would ignite irrational thoughts and break her heart. I didn't want doubts, suspicion and callous talks, as it is known to burn beautiful relationships to ground.

My truly well-wishing friends, as I realize now, would try to tell me rumours they heard about my angel. They would easily dismiss it after seeing disdain on my face. They really wanted to tell the truth but never dared to break my poor (and paranoid) heart. I never listened to them anyway. It was like me and her against the world.

I found out, much later, that people pitied me; something I never wanted. My gala of ignorance was too tempting and was on all lips. It was the talk of the college while I was lost in her charisma, braving the worldly criticism and irrationalizing their ‘biased’ opinions. I defended my stand vehemently. I was definitely under her spell of some mysterious kind. She would tell me not to listen to or believe in third person. And all I could do was nod in total agreement, like a faithful dog. Just that I didn’t lick her shoes.

Time flew under her spell like Odysseus under Circe’s.

And it was time that taught me many things about life and love. And slowly time taught me to look beyond what I saw in her and in my paranoid heart. And I saw many truths. Well, this can be  another story, altogether.  

Irrationalism

Irrational Number

I never thought of writing anything, not even a bit. It's an eyesore to see people doing what they hate doing. It will leave a bad taste in my mouth after I finish writing this. I never thought of writing anything, not even a note.

The letters and words and sentences you see are just the blatant mental juice flowing through an irrational mind. It is quite interesting to note that humans are the only creature gifted with irrational thoughts. I wonder if it's a gift after all. The irrational thoughts spring out of rational mind.

What is so rational about irrationalism?

May be irrationalism is god's gift to avoid the burden of the rational mind. Have you seen clouds dancing? Or even thought about it? If it's for real then it would just break all the gamut of science. Thinking of it is irrational thinking. But doesn't it give you solace? Fantasizing about an unattainable goals, imagining about it, makes us feel good about it. It gives us split second attainment feel of it.

Wishing the clock to turn backwards, wanting to be child again, wishing to change the past, and desiring to be a bit taller than you are, wanting to score '90 degrees' goal, to be great and disease free all springs out of irrational mind. At least, I rationally think it is so. I can't trust my rational mind; a breeding ground of irrationalism.

I have written this. Have I written it irrationally? Am I rationally irrational or irrationally rational? How irrational are you?

Never think of flying and instantaneously being with your partner. 

Now, can this be rational?

Some Memories are Forgotten

Some memories are never meant to be remembered. They just pass into oblivion without knowing. And there is no way of knowing what we forgot. Nature designed thus, so that we don’t have the pain of remembering what we forgot. Paradox? Is it not?

We remember, mostly, the things which are quite close to our heart and soul. We don’t forget sad moments either.

It is time that heals every wound and makes us forget most of the things. The things that don’t deserve to remain in our mind, arguably. But some memories keep bugging us. How we wish to forget it. It still remains there. If some memories are so adamant, refusing to forget then there maybe some beautiful memories too sublime to forget.

Those beautiful memories are wasted.  We don’t remember what we forgot. Why miss it? It is like missing someone you never met.

That’s plain absurdity.

Still, our confusing mind has its own reason. Did I forget something important? What is it? What was it like? When did it happen? When did I forget? Why did I forget? Ouch! Enough questions to get oneself a migraine.

We remember some in fragments, not able to make a whole picture. That means we forget some parts of a whole memory. Why is that? What was in it that was so unimportant? Or why was it so eager to be forgotten? Another source of migraine.

Science would say it otherwise. I am not into it. Science didn’t conquer our brain. It would be unwise to say science has answers to my questions. I maybe bluffing or at least I am a frog in a pond. The universe is as big as I think it to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Only time will tell. But still, why? Why do I forget some and remember some?

What did you forget? What do you remember? The things that you remember are likely the ones you wished to forget.

It is also possible that we forget so that we remember. Some memories are meant to be forgotten. Just as plain as it is.

End of the beginning...

I had this blog for myself since the beginning of 2008. I didn't post anything. This post is the end of my dormancy (I hope). I began a long time ago and it's today that I end my beginning. I'm going to try to post articles, however little sense it will make. I'll try to post something. I'm not worried about readers. I just want to post it.

So, this is my first post. Here it goes! God be with me in my journey.