Hello folks!
If you have been wondering why we were so quiet for so long, is because...shit was happening and it was happening big time!! Change in jobs, change in plans, no access to the internet and the list goes on...
But hey, we're back now :) And we'll set the dice rolling!!
Till then cheers!!!
When dreams and reality collide head on...I was dreaming when the phone rang. What was I actually dreaming? Now see, that’s the problem with dreams. You forget it soon enough unless it’s a nightmare that jolts you out of your sleep. And you feel glad, ‘it’s just a dream!’ Laying rest to the few disturbing thoughts, you go back to sleep!
Sometimes, you are falling from a height into a depth that has no end. Your whole body is constricting with electric sensation; the adrenaline is rushing. You know you need to do something but you are helpless. Your body is immobile, powerless against the force of gravity. You close your eyes knowing that the landing could shatter you completely. That would be the end of you.
Just that time, miracle intervenes. You open your eyes. For a numb while, you remain in suspended realism. Gradually, in that fleeting moment between the state of sleep and wakefulness, you collect yourself together. You are not falling anymore. You are rooted to the bed as best as you could.
‘It’s just a dream,’ you heave a sigh of relief.
Other times, you are running. A wild dog is after your life. You are scared like never before. Your heartbeat is a formula one race. And then your leg fails to reach the ground. You are running on a treadmill, exhausting but taking you no where. You look back and see that ferocious, snarling beast. This could be the end of you now. You say your prayers. The divine intervenes.
You turn back to gauge the distance in between you and the animal, measuring how much the beast needs to do the catching up. And then you realize you are cut-paste to a different world. The beast has metamorphosed into a cute, little puppy.
You stop running, and try to figure out what just transpired. Your heart is still beating against your chest. I must be dreaming, you think.
You compose yourself and walk toward the little dog. You cuddle it with your fingers. You pick it up in your hands, up till your face, and look into the dog’s eyes. The dog licks your face.
Transformation. The dog growls. You see those fatal fangs and red burning eyes up close. You are holding that beast. Where’s the little cute dog? The beast pounces on you. Caught by the frenzy of fear, you wake up. Nothing has happened to you! Your heart is still racing.
‘It’s just a dream,’ you heave a sigh of relief.
And then there are those adolescent dreams. You are about to make out with the prettiest girl in school. She is mesmerizing. She has swept you off your feet. And she is giving in now. She is all nude and ready. You are nervous and excited. Sexually.
I must be dreaming, you say! But you don’t care. You take out your clothes, hustle into the bed next to her and grab her tight. She is warm. You climb over her. Just that time, the devil intervenes.
You climax before you have the fun. No, stop, it’s not even started, you say. It’s too late by then. Night fall. That greasy stuff in your underwear wakes you up. You walk out of the bed, grumbling, to the bathroom. Need to wash up!
‘It’s just a dream, how bad?’ you curse, frustrated.
I cannot quite remember the head or tail of the dream that was cut short by the phone call. The last fuzzy thing that I can recollect is of the long, empty street. I am walking alone against the cold wind. It must be early in the morning. The street lights are still on. Somebody should switch it off. Save energy!
I am wrapped in a windproof jacket, thick waterproof trekking trousers and sporting a heavy footwear. An old rifle is slung down my shoulder. A light snow fall. A few dogs lie by the roadside, cuddled to themselves to ward off the cold. There’s not a single soul around. Horror strikes my mind. I am looking for Frankenstein. I am his creator.
The phone rings. I pick it up. I say I am on a mission impossible. Do not disturb me. Frankenstein will hear me. The phone rings. I have not picked it up at all.
I get up and answer the phone. What follows through the next moment completely knocks me out of my dream. It’s an unstoppable barrage of rapid fire reprimands.
“When did you come back? Why did you not call home? You are still sleeping? What is happening to you?”
“Hello!”
“This way you will never change? Father and mother are really angry with you. It’s time you become responsible. You have been drinking the whole night. Are you smoking?”
“Cut that crap short,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“You better send some money to your younger brother, maybe around 10,000. He called me last evening and he was really upset. I have sent him my share already.”
“10,000. Where will I get the money?” I think.
“Are you listening to me? Do I always have to call you? When was the last time you called me? And dad heard that you are splurging all your money drinking and partying! He is really disappointed with you!”
“From whom? What money? I don't have even money to...”
“I don’t know. It’s time you save. Look at your friends-they all have cars now. They are settled….”
“Don’t compare me with….”
“But you should realize you will need money. What if you are sick or someone in the family is sick. What if you need to go abroad? Won’t you need money?”
“I know but…”
“See, I am telling this for your own good. Get up now and call home!”
“I am this way and I am happy!”
“For how long? You need to think about your life? What, when you have a family and kids?”
“What what?”
“So did you bring those stuffs I asked you?” she softens up.
“Yes, I did.”
“How many?”
“Five pieces.”
“Just five?”
“I ran short of money.”
“What about the color box for the kids?”
“Hmmm….” Fast, I need to answer. “Yes I got them,” I lie. Now I need to buy it from here.
“Okay, brother-in-law will pick it up when he comes to Thimphu. And you better send the money. Today, if possible.”
“Alright! Stop now. I will call you later. Bye. Give my love to the kids. Bye, bye and bye!”
I cut the line, throw the mobile on the floor and try to get back to the dream.
Where was I? Yes, that long, empty street with lights on. The early morning wind. The light snow fall. The dogs. My jacket, trousers and the boot. The gun.Come Frankenstein!
I sleep off for another hour and half. The alarm wakes me up. I get up and look at the phone. Three missed calls from my sister. Did we not just talk?
I call her. And then, bet, what follows is a barrage of rapid fire reprimands…
(P.S: this is for my sweet, caring, loving sister who keeps reminding me where and when i am going haywire!)
You know what, it’s easy to give shit than to take it. And this is the only time when we are so altruistically selfless. While giving hell load of shit to others!
For centuries, we have been told, now it has almost become a tradition. Giving is what brings happiness! So folks, give it on! As much as you can. Heave-ho! Bring it out, the shit must flow. Continuity!
Give that crap! It’s like the manna from heaven. It’s the elixir of life. It’s the Lord’s plans for us. And His will shall be done. Oh, we are the saviors!
Now isn’t this sounding a little too ‘Christian’? Sorry brethrens, but you know right, sensitivities especially regarding to religious sentiments mustn’t be overlooked. Not when the majority is non-believers. What’s that word, heathens!
But we got to feed shit! Every day, every Friday, Saturday and Sunday! We have great responsibilities, the golden yoke they say, which just gets heavier each day!
We are the independent voice, the people’s paper that shall inform the nation, and dealing you with business of your lives! And your week begins here, with a lot of shit!
Mass media is doing magic, isn’t it? Though it arrived a little late like anything and everything else in the country. And as magic is, it is just tricks! You just need to know how to play it up!
They have been doing it well. They think they know a lot, sometimes everything. They know others think and value what they know, say and write! Media, it’s done some good to these people!
Power. The watch dog (or is it a poodle?). The fourth estate. Holy shit, that’s too much to handle!
The so-called writers, they are. Writers with huge, inflated egos like hydrogen balloons with the indefatigable ‘I am the best’ attitude. What I write is so true, so powerful, so damn good, and matchless! And what you write, well, it is pretty okay but need some editing! Don’t worry-I am there for you!
Well, the sad thing is, so far these writers have been reviewing books written by other less known and less proud writers. They take amusement in reading a book they feel is badly written but nonetheless write a positive review.
Their rationale: We can’t slur the author’s first attempt. Anyway it’s just a promotional piece. I won’t lose or gain by doing this fellow a little good.
I know when I write a book it will be an international best seller that would bag a Pulitzer, a Booker or who knows an Oscar (Oops, this is for my screenplay!)
You heard that shit right!
But no denying, they are a force to reckon with. Forces of change! The change we all believe in but not even Barack can make it happen! That black president did have the audacity of hope to say such a thing! Now see aren’t we taking him a tad too seriously?
The change came. In BT. Not because we had any option but we were forced to. It was somewhere near to Marxist’s ideals of revolution. The proletariat's rising against the super class. But there are two sides to a coin. One told, the other distorted.
And again, as expected and bound to happen, the distorted became the 'business as usual.'
We talk about democracy, Gross National Happiness whether we know, believe in it or not. And it seems like some people have never come to terms with the ‘solidarity walk’. They dig shit. The stink returns. If there is any political reason to it, it is because we are too caught up in the things of the past. That past!
But now we are talking about a walk-out with an ‘ulterior motive’ to ‘kill’ the paper, without thinking of other 47 employees with families. Suddenly it’s a matter of fact!
Did any one ask how shitty things had become? Did they try putting themselves in the shoes of those who walked-out? Perhaps not!
Why are they suddenly not talking about ethics, principles and journalism? Did it get out the window, as doors of opportunity opened up itself for them without much ado? Is it about saving the paper or recovering the lost ground? Please do not give us all this shit!
And why not we talk about who sold their souls to the devil? Who’s done that?
I know radicals don’t have a place here. But I thought they were brothers-in-arms. They too wanted to change the world. But how could they, with their pseudo revolutionary ideas? They just talk big and pass cynical criticisms. And drink to much booze. And they think, what they think, say and write are the best that could ever happen in this country. Or maybe in the world, who knows with their level of self confidence and pride.
No one can beat them. Not even the best writers in the world. For in their cocoon, they are the best. Give one up for them, for their insensible sense of superiority.
But everyone knows who’s worth the shit and who’s not! And who’s done the shit, and who’s high!
This time, an indescribable trapping of my own mind, had me caught unaware. I had braced up for the final moment of truth. Reminding that the nature of certain relationships is to find joy in the momentary togetherness. And not looking beyond the end.
As it might appear, easier said than done, the heart triumphed over rationale. And I slumped into depression. Loneliness. The pain of missing her. The vacuum created by her absence. The objects that kept reminding me of her. The feeling that you do not belong anywhere but to her. My heart was troubled. Very much.
For the sake of distraction, I logged into Facebook, the social networking site that has given a new leash of life to people who are bored. My status: down with a heartburn!
And as usual, good Samaritan friends, ever helpful, with loads of free-of-cost advices thronged my way. I was touched. So many of them came and dropped feel-good words.
At least three of them left behind a piece of their philosophy pie for me to chew.
Buddhism can be a huge relief but not in this context. She, my dear friend, is an avid student of Buddhist philosophies. Although she is doing her masters in some techno-engineering stuff, lately she has realized that Buddhism is the calling of her life. Her next stop-enlightenment!
“You are sad because of insecurity. That insecurity arises from the reason that you cannot live without that person. You are dependent on her, emotionally and physically. You are absolutely attached to the idea that she is almost everything to you,” she said, in a matter-of-fact air.
“You have to give up this myth, and believe that everything is impermanent. You will find happiness when you come to terms with reality-that dying, partying, sickness, and aging-is just the order of the nature,” she added, before swiftly leaving Facebook saying she had some guests coming for dinner.
Romanticism still lives in the books. And of course in the mind of one of my friends. A self declared romantic, who is pursuing her masters in journalism, was quicker enough to term my condition ‘the beautiful pain’ of loving and missing some one.
But my friend was herself quite unsure. She wished if she could also feel the same beautiful pain like me. It seemed love had left a bad taste on her. However, Nicholas Sparks’ novel was helping her find the lost chords.
The next friend, who listened carefully, was equally if not more, hurt by my pain. Sympathetic words streamed out one after another
“…….but you know right…this is life…” she said and left.
I changed my face book status from ‘down with a heartburn’ to "Silabi! (Spell check)."
Nothing is too early. Except dying. And if death comes early, we got to know that perhaps life wasn't good. Not too good enough!
But when you are living, have you got any choice? I guess not. And that’s why we go on doing what we go on doing. For a long time to come.
We get sick and tired. Exhausted, we run out of steam. What’s the point? This absurd drama plays and replays on this stage of life over and again. You are a spectator one day. The other day, you are a prop. Next time, you are a funny actor.
You have to amuse the crowd. Make them feel good. Keep the show running. That’s your job.
I don’t think I deserve to be this way or that way. Let me put my record straight, I too want a good life. Or how did one famous personality just put it-I have a dream, too. Who’s not got one?
At the end, dreams are all we have got. Our only prized worldly possessions. I am my own fortune teller. I don’t need a crazy psychic to predict my future. I built castles in the air. I am not bothered. Reality may suck but who cares! What counts is my ability to dream!
It vexes me. It’s making me go mad. I want to blame, point my fingers at all people possible.
God first! The holy mighty one. He’s a prick, big time, if he’s around. But for sure I know, He wasn’t there, at all. Never once. Funny God isn’t he? It’s a reflection of human ingenuity to create a greater force to depend on. With or without rationale….so they say do what you can do, what you can’t do, pray for! God bless their souls if you are there!
Oh, not my parents. They have been good. All this time.
But what about the system? It’s a crappy system, through and through. From the education to the heavily colonized western mental system. The West is cool. Their lifestyle awesome. Their money better. It’s now about NYC (Wazzat!) that mumbo-jumbo, borrowed ascent! OH ma gad! How well an American she’s turned into!
That’s alright. We accept, people pick up ascents, genuinely or just to show-off! But you can’t beat this. One RJ in our many budding radio FMs just got a new found ascent without setting one foot out of the country. Where do people pick-up all these…these jazz, wanabe, outlandish attitudes!
And your unique culture, your GNH will go to the dogs. Things are falling apart. And the consequence: I am the anarchy.
But this tribe is indifferent. Solidarity walk! Remember guys. It was just too funny. The few people who volunteered, took troubles to organize, question the government, and assert their constitutional rights…were attacked with a barrage of criticisms from left, right, central.
They called it bad precedence. They said it was a demonstration in disguise. They called it strike, protest, name it! They were too reminiscent of events in the past with their pseudo patriotism and misplaced sense of nationalism.
Gutless chickens, bloody ones, I call them! But the precedence is set…chickens can go die! This is our time. A democracy. Feudal left overs can also go die!
Change must come... the adventure of ideas, the revolution of thoughts too…Slowly. Gradually. Not marauding haywire without a plan. I am talking about growth here. About development. About progress. Not instant mutation. May be we should leave those to stem-cell scientists. God knows how they do what they do. But should I care? Hell, no.
For in my cloister, I live each day, like I did the other day. Nothing else matters but a smoke, a drink, and a book…
The train journey wasn't that bad. The waiter in the Rajdhani kept feeding me continuously from the time i boarded the train in NJP till i got off in New Delhi. And in between hallucinating and a game of cards with total strangers, i bumped into an old school mate.
