GUESS WHO WAS DODGING BULLETS?

Passang Dorji is a classic guy. Not only does he let slip a cruel joke every now and then, but he also does things that are beyond anybody’s wildest imagination.

His aloof, serious and no-nonsense persona, only adds an extra tinge of flavor when he unleashes his wisecracks and antics. So unexpected and abrupt they come, forget the rest, it even freaks the man himself out. And that is precisely why; Passang Dorji is a classic guy.

Even in all his seriousness, the man has the ability to blend himself to the space he’s in and instantly adjust to the situation. Plus, the things he does at the spur of the moment, thinking it is necessary, is, I thought, worth a mention.

Headed for Gelephu, darkness was already falling when we hit traffic. And it just didn’t seem to bother our man that the gate might close for our destination in Sarpang, he continued driving at a snail’s pace. “Whether you like it or not, I cannot go faster than this. I suffer from night blindness,” was his deadpan answer to shut me up.

Although I bought his excuse then and followed him in my car just as slowly, I wasn’t aware that if the gate did close, he had a trick hidden up his sleeve. The classic trick, may I also mention, was intended in all seriousness.

When we finally got there in what seemed forever, the gate, as expected, was closed. He didn’t seem worried – not then and not now. If I may add, with his permission of course, and in his own words, “Passang Dorji can move mountains.”

He simply took out his phone and explained to some officials how urgent and important it was for us to get there. So, we were made to write and sign an undertaking stating we were traveling the stretch at our own risk. And should anything happen, no one would be held responsible.

“Drive fast and don’t stop the car no matter who asks you to,” warned a cop standing at the check-point.

Our man, wearing a grave expression, walked up to my car. “You know, I have two kids. But for you, I will take the risk,” he said, with a sense of urgency in his tone mingled with uncertain fear. Having said that, he got into his car and slammed the door in a fashion very typical of him.

The gate flew open and his tires squealed as he zoomed before me. It seemed like it was now my turn to keep up with his pace. And, just as I was beginning to enjoy the speed, with a few meters covered, he was back to his normal self again. The fear, I felt, had gone flying out his car window.

All of a sudden, the warning didn’t seem to disturb him anymore. He got back to driving at a snail’s pace. Only this time, his car started going zig-zag. No sooner would he finish turning left, he would turn right, sometimes even going off the road.

The first time his car veered off the main road, I braked hard expecting a mighty jerk because of a pothole. There wasn’t any.

The road was smooth, straight and without a car in sight. Even then, he drove from one corner of the road to another, like a man possessed, while the car screamed every time he did so. I couldn’t understand what was going on.

The half-hour drive to Gelephu from Sarpang took us almost an hour but nevertheless we made it without any hitch. And, although, I could make out he was exhausted from driving like that, I was curious.

“Oye Passang, why were you driving like a mad man?” I asked.

He looked at me, as if to say, are you really as stupid as you look, before he answered.

“Don’t you watch movies or what? That is how you dodge bullets while driving, should anyone open fire,” was his classic reply. I realized he wasn’t joking.

By the way, Passang Dorji isn’t just a classic guy; he is also my roommate at work.

There are so many other classic incidences of his, but because space doesn’t permit, and because a guy capable of dodging imaginary bullets is capable of anything else, I will not incur his wrath.

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AND I SAID HELLO KOBENHAVN!

The first day itself, I was amused by all things Copenhagen.

The old buildings, cobblestone-roads, fountains, parks, canals and cafes. The amusement, I must confess, didn’t last very long.

Copenhagen is like any city, any city in the world. But unlike other cities, Copenhagen leaves you perplexed. It is not in any way dangerous. No one picks your pocket or even gives you that ‘watch it!’ look. Roam around the streets at night, and the slight eerie feeling that creeps up is because of the grotesque carved visages of humans, demons and monsters gaping at you.

In a city where everyday the little mermaid greets people at the harbor while everybody cycles to work, it is difficult to keep your sanity intact. That is probably why it is a country with one of the highest number of suicides in the world. Imagine, watching a movie in an empty theatre where a woman walks up to you and says, “You’re occupying my seat.”

I was not used to things being so organized. Inasmuch as the majority of us would prefer to wake up every morning to a normal life, I wanted some amount of chaos.

It was then that I took the metro from Frederiksberg to Christiania. And that is how this story begins. For most Danes, though, why anyone would want to go there is a question worth considering.

Perhaps, it was because I had never seen a hippie in his own country, and perhaps, I also harbored an urge to experience what life was like in such a forbidden place.

Christiania is a ‘free town’. A town, cops in riot-gear frequently raid, where Danes and Greenlanders stroll along the pusher street, where a stupa replicating the Swyambhunath in Kathmandu stands tall, and where, an agricultural product of Morocco is very much bought and sold.

As I picked my way through the orange evening sun of Christiania, I noticed houses - all fantastic, all different and all colorful. Tree houses, little boat-like houses and all kinds of houses that you would probably read in a Hans Christian Anderson fable.

And while I was marveling at the place’s beauty, I heard a gruff voice. “Hej, vil du kobe noget hash?” (Hello, are you looking for hash?). The man smiled in a state of herb-induced ecstasy, showing a set of dirty, uneven teeth “Det er meget billigt.” (I will give you for a special price.).

Boredom loves company and it didn’t matter that company came in the form of a rough looking man..

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, almost falling down. “I give you finest Morocco, only 90 kroners.” Taking out a small weighing scale, he spoke again while his eyes combed the vicinity. “One gram, two?” there was a pause. “You want to smell it?” he extended his hand toward me with the stuff in it.

“I can’t pay that much,” I said.

“I will give you for 70 kroners.” There was silence as he watched me closely. Then with a warm look he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Bhutan,” I said with a smile. “Do you know where it is?”

“Bootan, no,” there was a confused look on his face. “Where is it, Bootan?”

“In the Himalayas,” I sat on an empty drum as I said that.

“Aghhh!” he said bemused. “I am Per,” he gave me his hand for a shake. “I always wanted to travel. Are you here on a holiday?”

Just as I took his hand and was about to answer, he tried to lure another passerby. “Hej, vil du kobe noget hash?”

I sat there watching him go about his business while there was music blaring from a café behind me. I noticed that Per had failed to nail his customer.

“You must be thirsty, care for a beer?” I said to lighten him up.

Looking at me for almost an entire minute, he finally spoke. “Yah, sure.”

I let him lead the way as we entered the Moonfisher Café. Except for the occasional turn of heads, no one else seemed distracted by our presence, not even the band that was playing.

“Two Tuborgs please,” I said to the bartender, brushing past a group of dancers in a trance. The room was filled with smoke of different flavors.

“That will be 80 kroners,” she said smiling.

As I grabbed the bottles and headed for an empty table, I noticed that Per had disappeared. Maybe, not all Danes are organized after all.

“Copenhagen is very safe. In the last ten years, there have been only two murders, that of an Italian tourist and a Brit,” I overheard a man say to a tourist. “The former for not using his head and the other was a victim of a freak incident. It happens all around the world, really."

I sat there watching the band sing Knocking on Heaven’s Door as I gulped down my beer.

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Ban the ban

There has been much ado about the tobacco ban in recent years.

Apart from the international limelight Bhutan saw itself in, nothing much has come out of it. From the ineffectiveness of the ban to the kick-start of a booming black market, we’ve seen it all.

And now, finally, our parliamentarians are seeing it too.

The 82nd session of the National Assembly’s resolution to butt in on a contentious issue as personal as smoking, without a pre-ban analysis, hasn’t achieved its objective. The ban has neither cut down on the number of smokers nor has it put in place a sound system of both vigilance and enforcement.

Now, four and a half years later, the country struggles to remember what the purpose of the ban was in the first place. Things look pretty much the same as they did on December 16, 2004 – a day before the tobacco ban was imposed. The country hasn’t given up on its longtime addiction. It still looks longingly for that pack of smokes and reaches for it.

Tobacco is still available in all the places it used to be before the ban. Only the price has doubled or quadrupled as is the case in more remoter dzongkhags.

The only reminder that the ban exists is a few seizures along the check points every now and then. Unfortunately, the lucre of making a hundred percent or more makes the risk more than worth it even though the dealers stand to lose their business licenses if caught.

The National Council deciding to impose a high tax on those who sell tobacco products if the ban is lifted will benefit the government better. So far, it has only led to the improvement in the underground economy of those involved in the racket.

In nearly five years, Bhutan hasn’t benefited from the ban, and revoking it will not make the situation any different from how it already is. If we haven’t been able to get fiercely firm about it, the right thing to do now is to get rid of it.

And the lesson we can learn is not to do things in haste. First, the use of plastic was banned in the interest of the environment. But it is still available in most shops making a complete mockery of the ban. Then it was tobacco, a noble issue gone up in smoke.

Let us no longer be the butt of lingering jokes, when it doesn’t hold any water, like this one written by a foreign journalist, Eric Weiner. “If you're indignant that your boss just shut the smoking room and outraged that you have to leave the bar to light up, take heart. Life could be worse. You could be Bhutanese.”

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The Buddha, Almost!

Bad times are rolling. And good folks are few and far between. Times are no longer simple. Those good old days are no more there. A hard day’s work in the field, a decent pack lunch, a refreshing cup of wine, a doting wife waiting by the hearth ready with dinner, squeals of little children scampering around you in playful mood, bedtime stories, and a goodnight’s sleep. Golden dreams.

Early morning prayer before the altar. A mug of hot, steaming suja with corn flakes, hand beaten. Off to work. Wisp of freshness in the air. Spring birds chirping among the trees. Flowers just sprinkling out into the open. The gurgle of the stream nearby. The rays of the morning sunlight over the brow. A bamboo hat. A flask full of local brew. The damsel’s songs. The spades and feel of wet soil. The source of life. Everything is perfect, almost.

It is ideal, utopia so to say. The men worked out in the field, the women stayed back home, rearing the children. And weaving. There would often be festivals, lots of food, meat. Lots of alcohol. Lots of dancing and singing. Old and the aged, adults and married, singles and the young, little children too, at the get-together.

And then change came. Gushing like a flood or a wild conflagration, sweeping away and burning down the old ways of life. Disaster and havoc prevailed. It stole the simplicity, the innocence, and the joie de vivre of the life that was. Complete metamorphosis. Chaos reigned supreme.

Time is money. I am spaced out, too much stress, both physical and mental. And it takes too much of drinking to quell that pressure off the shoulders. I am lost in the world of vanity- brands, swanky cars, power and status. Money talks! Colorful, late night bars, sex workers and gigs. Promiscuity, failed marriages, failed love, broken hearts, terrible experiences.

Broad versus narrow mindedness. Sexual freedom-everything is fair in love and sex, plus sugar daddies and sugar mamas. The birth of the ultra-modern (wo)man. Absolute fun! No bar whatsoever, just raise it higher. Living in the moment or living in borrowed times?

Nirvana. Instant crave for enlightenment and desire to levitate to a different reality. Human yet not exactly one. Animal, not yet either. Too much of Identity crisis, it is. Let’s do drugs, softer ones to start with. Chemical. Pills. Sugar. Crack. Bring it on. I like the high. I am the Buddha, almost.

Well, money is no problem. My dad’s a filthy rich man and my mom too is a filthy rich woman. They live their own lives, so do I? They don’t complain about me, I don’t complain about them. It’s a fair deal. Rest assured I just do what pleases me.

Tag: jobless. I dropped out of school. A lot of family problems. I could not stand it. I roam the streets, day in and day out. I Smoke shit, marijuana and sniff fluid. I feel good. I forget my reality.

I dance, in the bar, smile at strangers and sleep with them. Don’t worry, I have protected sex. Condoms are free, even dotted ones these days. (Well and good!) I earn quite a lot and lead quite a decent life. I save some and send it back home to my poor mother and for the education of my younger siblings. I know but that’s all I can do. It’s tough to be a woman, an unfortunate one.

I have been in and out. For petty crimes-shop lifting, robbery, pilfering etc. I am just 18. Not actually, I will be turning 18 this fall. Who cares about age? I got a girl friend who is pregnant. I am going to be a dad very soon. And she is just sweet sixteen. It is normal, we start quite early. I am just another teenager on the prowl.

Well, I did try to get a job, but life is difficult. I gave up schooling early in life. My parents could not afford it. I wore rubber shoes to school. It was embarrassing. I sat under a tree, dreaming on an empty stomach, rats running all over it. While others had packed meals. Everyday of school was a picnic for them. So one day I ran away. And never looked back.

Yes, I can, if I have to. Necessity is the mother of all invention. Kill somebody or murder? It won’t be easy but not impossible. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Totally. I am just another dog. I will eat than be eaten.

They talk about happiness, rather promises of happiness. And they care too much about their own happy-ness, fat pay checks, bungalows waiting for them to move in, big cars, colored kabneys, and gilded silver swords. Dasho, call me that! And a smirk flashes across their faces. They have it all, everything mundanely possible. Yet they go on, chattering over and again with their pseudo patriotism, usurped ideals and ideologies.

The man in the red robes taught me that we have a Buddha inside us, every one of us. All we have to do is recognize that Buddha nature. Positive motivation, positive actions, and positive merits will come our way. So in the next life, it would be even more beautiful. Definitely, of course!

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Just filling in...

You probably think I inflict myself on you every now and then. And you probably read what I write hoping I have something earth-shattering to say? Only to find out I don’t.

Why then, you may ask, should someone who is obnoxiously erratic where writing is concerned pretend to be so prolific? No great mystery. My blog-mate who was scheduled to write today – didn’t.

And since I have no privileged insight into the mind or motives of the guy who was scheduled to write today’s blog, what you read hereafter perhaps will be very different from what the guy who was scheduled to write might have written. It did take a major chunk of my time, however, when I could have been sleeping.

I don’t have a bagful of things to write about. Neither do I have a genie I can take out of a bottle, command it to write something that will catch your fancy, and then return it to the bottle. That is why, sometimes, what you read is gibberish.

When the person writing is deprived of sleep because the guy who was scheduled to write - didn’t, even churning out gibberish is a feat.

I know, you may argue that some writers do churn out masterpieces time after time. Well, I guess they do have genies then. And if you’re still in the mood to argue, it's the guy who was supposed to write today that you should get hold of. He's known as Big B!

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I've tried in my way to be free

It remains highly comforting to us. And that’s finally all anyone wants out of a song – to be comforted.

I have a problem sleeping until the weird object hanging in my room says 3 ‘o clock. I have tried everything - everything possible to drift into slumber much before the clock strikes three. But in the end, only irritation prevails.

And in that space of irritation, music sedates me in a philosophical manner, evoking deep rooted emotions while connecting me to my inner being on an infinite number of levels. From the depths of depression to the splendid high of life, the precise nature of that musical pleasure at that particular moment eludes everything else.

So, I actually enjoy lying in the dark midway between half asleep and half awake. Perhaps, trying to get to know myself better so as to anticipate what kind of music I prefer when swinging between moods. Or perhaps, I enjoy gliding to a lesser horrible world.

“The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world,” a Canadian singer-songwriter, poet and novelist – Leonard Cohen once said.

Whether that is my last refuge, I have yet to find out. But, what I’ve found out, restless in the dark, with the earphones plugged deep into my ears is that, the man’s music relaxes me, better than any tranquilizer. Listening to him, everything around me seems to be invisible – even the clock on the wall. Listening to him, I float into a diverse world.

And as he sings Dear Heather, I fight sleep to be transformed into a different place, by the sea, taking a stroll with the woman I love. Every word is just perfect along with the setting in my mind.

Dear Heather

Please walk by me again

With a drink in your hand

And your legs all white

From the winter

Though, the woman and the setting is always the same, the song evokes greater depths of mystery and meaning each time I listen to it. It is like she waits for me by the shore, with her skirt flying, every evening. Sometimes for days on end, to continue from where we parted. And every time I reappear, she greets me either smiling or sad.

I wonder, if it takes a ceiling with a curious shade of dingy yellow, a bed by the wall, with a clock dangling somewhere above in the darkness, for the sometimes silly feeling to arise.

Whatever the conclusion, at that moment, it really doesn’t matter. Instead, I imagine how elusive answers can be to the vexing questions that surround us as I listen to Bird on a Wire.

Like a bird on a wire

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

I have tried in my way to be free…

I have torn everyone who reached out for me...

I begin to think of people - the religious to the elite, and the vagabonds to the fallen. The song goes on and on, always the same, and yet the longer I listen the harder I find my thoughts roving.

To be able to get inside the song, to be drawn into the loop of its repetitions, is most likely a place where one can fade away.

Far more numerous are those with nothing to do and nowhere to go. The drunks and the devastated, clothed in rags, bruised and bleeding – they seem to be everywhere. There are the ones who talk to themselves, who tell themselves stories as if to someone else. There are the women with their shopping bags and men with their empty wallets, moving their possessions from place to place, as if it mattered.

Sometimes, they come to a decision about things without even realizing that they have. Sometimes, without even knowing it, the answers to their questions are right there, staring them in the face. Still, most of them spend their entire lives waiting for the sign not realizing that life will slowly pass them by. Pondering and probing deeper, the world seems a mixture of the brutal and gorgeous – for the moment.

Thinking of people in a state of delirium, it seems that they will always be happy in a place where they are not. Perhaps, I too will be happier elsewhere. Suddenly, I think of Samuel Beckett. His books I have enjoyed reading and some lines from them, have become a part of me, just like Cohen’s songs.

“For in me there have always been two fools amongst others. One asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.”

I want to carry on with my thoughts about life, about people, about solutions, about religion, about far away places. But, I drift back to the woman waiting for me. The moist air around her soft, almost sweet, I want to tell her that I’m her Man. Only, this time, I want to do so without fighting sleep.

…I’d crawl to you baby

And I’d fall at your feet

And I’d howl at your beauty

Like a dog in heat

And I’d claw at your heart

And I’d tear at your sheet

I’d say please, please

I’m your man…

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Big B's screwing with his mind !

He's sober. He thinks he is. I say no he's not. I say he's screwing with his mind. Big B's screwing with his mind - big time!
It's late. Pretty late. So tomorrow I'll tell you why. Why Big B's screwing with his mind. It may bore you - even bore you to death. Or just amuse you - and give you a leash on life. But you must wait. Wait for the morning light. Only then will you know why, just why Big B's screwing with his mind.
And if with the break of light, I haven't told you why, just why Big B's screwing with his mind, please know then, he's screwed up with mine. Screwed it up big time.

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