Rice Cooker Disease?

Before electric rice cooker was introduced in our kitchen cooking rice was an art. Not many could boast about knowing the art. Even pro mothers could land up with bad pots once in a while. I remember how my mother would be on her toes once the rinsed rice was poured into the boiling water. She would keep stirring it and from time to time she would spoon out few grains and feel them between her fingers.

Once she got the right feel, which was when the grain was soften all around except a tiny bit in the centre, she would remove the pot from the oven and drain out the thick rice soup that was half the content of the pot. Then the pot was put back on the oven with low heat. I always wondered how my mother knew how much longer to wait after that because I mostly landed up with either uncooked or burnt rice.

That short story on the art of cooking rice can be a history lesson for young Bhutanese born after 90s. Because after electric rice cooker came cooking rice literally became a child's play. All you have to do is rinse the rice, along with some water pour it in the cooker. Put your index finger to see if the water level is at the first line of your finger above the level of the rice. Close the cooker. Pull the light down to 'cook' and go to sleep till mother comes home to prepare the curry. Of course some can't even do that much.

Besides the art and history of cooking rice there also seems to be solid science involved in it, which is gradually surfacing in the form of a disease. The deadly disease is called diabetes. It's sugary but not at all a sweet disease it mess with. We understand that it is to do with excessive sugar in our blood that our pancreas can't handle. But how did this happen?

Bhutan didn't have this disease before, perhaps there were some cases that we were ignorant about but now it has become so common. Well, the answer could be in the rice cooker. A research in Singapore ( Story published in Strait Times) has shown that a plate of rice is as bad as two cans of sweetened soft drink. Ask yourself how many plates you eat in a day.

We Bhutanese always ate rice, so before you ask me why I blamed rice cooker here let me tell you that before rice cooker we boiled rice till it gave away whatever it contained and drained out the soup. Remember the history lesson. So the rice we were eating didn't contain all the sugar it came with but now we are taking in every bit of sugar it contains because there is no draining out of soup.

We started using rice cookers in 90s and in the last two decades we must have forgotten how to cook rice without rice cooker but we have produced enough diabetic parents to relearn the art of cooking rice the old way.

Courtesy: Strait Times, Singapore 

My Favourite Mushroom

I couldn't gather the english name of my favourite mushroom despite trying two very authentic mushroom websites. In Haa we call it Chenpo Shamo, literally translating to Liver Mushroom. The local name apparently is derived from the size, color and taste because the mushroom looks and taste like one. However it has sharp odour, which many people won't find pleasant. Perhaps that's why it's not very popular though it's said to have high medicinal values. 

If you are an amateur mushroom picker you wouldn't spare a second glance at it because it's huge, ugly and stinky but if I saw it I would dance three time in extreme joy. 

Chenpo Shamo from Home

My love for this mushroom is inherited from my mother among many. When I go home in summers her grandest way of welcoming me is by keeping stock of this mushroom. Nice neighbours would bring along some when they get it knowing how much we love it. 

This summer my mother wasn't very lucky with this mushroom but she has managed to barter two pieces with the neighbour and sent it to me. It was packed in a carton box and as I opened it the scent filled my room. It thrilled me. It was kind of scent that evoked so many memories from village, like certain music does. Recently my cousin visited me from village and even she brought me few pieces. I have sliced it and sun dried it for future consumption. Because this mushroom comes back alive when soaked in water. 

There are various recipes you can try with this mushroom but nothing beats ezay. 
Roast the mushroom lightly, 
Slice it into thin pieces, 
Add chilli powder and finish it with few pinches of thingay. 

If that bitterish liverly taste don't knock you down, tell me! 

Chenpo Shamo Ezay

Earthquake Hoax

མིང་ངན་གྱིས་ཡུལ་དཀྲོགས།། བྱ་ངན་གྱིས་གདངས་དཀྲོགས།།

My mother and I were in constant conversation over the phone debating on the hoaxed earthquake. She heard that it was going to be bigger than the Nepal earthquake and since our house was in bad shape from the last earthquake she has decided to abandon it and sleep in the kitchen garden instead. She saw the people in neighbouring villages pitching tents in their fields. The hoax has created such mass panic in rural areas. 

I told my mother that if His Holiness the Je Khenpo really had a vision of such a natural calamity befalling his people, more than anybody, his compassionate self would inform the nation and not some fool on WeChat.
I asked her, "Would the government leave us in the dark instead of evacuating us to safety?"
"Would I let you stay in that unsafe house all by yourself?" 
"How could you believe some random people and not me?" 
It was hard but I could convince her like I have done several times in the past. This wasn't the first wave of fear that swept across my village

The magnitude of fear and panic the hoax has created among our rural population is beyond forgivable limit. It has gone deep into the simple lives of people and disturb their peace. What do people get from doing this? Who are they? It cannot be one person but a chain of ignorant people who believed in it themselves and then shared their fear. It is a very serious offence and I hope theses people will be traced and punished. 

And more than anything we need to find a permanent solution to this repetitive problem of mass panic created by hoax, because if a salt shortage hoax could cause market to inflate salt price and people to hoard salt then anything is possible. 

The mobile app WeChat, which took internet access to rural population has now become a platform for newer evils, from sharing porn to racial jokes to hoax. With its ease of use and reach new hoaxes can do massive damage. What will be the next bad thing people will do on this platform? 

History of Terton Sherab Mebar We Missed in School

My mother told me tales about a certain Pangpi Lam, who went to Nub Tshonapatra, a lake west of Haa, to fetch golden pillars growing on the lake's bottom. He took a group of carpenters who were to fell the golden pillars when he vanished the water from the lake. The carpenters were instructed to take the gold splinters from the one-foot margin they were given for chopping.

Nub Tshonapatra (Tsho Na Pa Tra) Picture: Dechen Pema

But the carpenters grew greedy as they saw chunks of gold flying all over on the impact of their axes. They went beyond the margin. Lam signalled the relentless carpenters to maintain the margin given because he had held up the lake water in his mouth and could not speak. Lam had to shout at them to stop when the workers went way too much, but then the lake busted out of his mouth and killed all workers. The raging water then chased Lam, who now lost his meditative concentration.

Lam fled with some treasures he had extracted from the lake, which he threw one by one to distract his pursuer. Each time he dropped an object, a portion of water settled over it and formed a small lake. The lakes were called Nga Tsho (Drum Lake), Dung Tsho (Trumpet Tsho) and so on, named after the treasures they were concealing. When the Lam finally reached his monastery, the water retreated, and by then, Lam had only a cymbal with him.

Nub Tshonapata and all the other lakes

I thought it was another folktale until I learned the presence of the single cymbal in Paro Dzong. It can be seen and heard during the first day of Paro Tshechu. That made me interested in the story of Pangpi Lam.

The single Cymbal in Paro Dzong believed to be from Nub Tshonapata

Then I learned that there is a place called Pangpisa where the legendary lam lived, wherein the name Pangpi Lam came. His real name was Terton Sherab Mebar. I was told his body was preserved to this day. It even connected to the famous Pangpi Reip, the medicinal ball reputed to cure any form of internal infection, including cancer. The Reip was said to be rolled out from the dust gathered from terton’s remains.

All these fragments of mythical and historical information finally formed proper shape and fitted together on 24.06.2015 when I visited the very place, which is now called Ugyen Guru Lhakhang, in Pangpisa. Thanks to my friend Sonam Ura for making a special arrangement for our team on the day they had all the treasures on display.

Despite the bad road, a huge crowd has come to receive blessings from supernatural objects. Our team patiently waited until late afternoon to take our turn. It was worth the wait because the crowd had disappeared and we were just about twenty of us at the end. We sat around the current Pangpi Lam, who had all the treasure displayed on his table.

The charming and witty orator began the history lesson, and for the first time, I realized that Terton Sherab Mebar lived way before Zhabdrung and even before Terton Pema Lingpa. He was believed to be born in 1267. As a passionate history student, what was very intriguing about him was the specifics we could draw right out of the three tiny pecha (religious text) written on palm leaves in his own handwriting. The two were said to have details of his treasures and one about his own life.

As much as I love to share about the Terton, I am scared I might dilute the great piece of history. Therefore I will dwell on certain aspects of his life and legend and leave the rest to serious historians like Dr Karma Phuntsho to do justice.

Terton Sherab Mebar is believed to have approached Bhutan through the Jomolhari, where he was said to have discovered his first treasure on his way from Tibet. He continued to Bumthang through Baylangdra in Wangdue. Once in Bumthang, according to his prophecy, he had to look for a girl called Pema Chuki of a certain age to accompany him in discovering certain treasures, but that proclamation did not go well with the locals. It instead triggered suspicion, and the then ruler in Bumthang, who too had his eye on the same girl, didn't want to believe in such a prophecy. 

He demanded Terton to prove himself to the people of Bumthang by discovering treasure from a nearby lake, the current Mebar Tsho. Terton resisted, saying that the time hadn’t come for the Mebar Tsho treasures to be revealed. He told them that three generations later, his own reincarnation, which we now know was Terton Pema Lingpa, would come to discover treasures from the lake. This only added more suspicion, and he came under tremendous pressure to prove himself by going to the Mebar Tsho with a burning lamp in his hand. He came out with two chests of treasures that he returned to the lake immediately to be rediscovered generations later by the rightful Terton, Pema Lingpa.

He seemed to have failed to win the goodwill of the people or the ruler of Bumthang because he could neither marry Pema Chuki and nor discover the treasure he was destined to do in the company of the prophesied khandro. This was the beginning of many events that would go wrong in his life and ultimately cost him his life.

The subsequent failure happened in Pasakha, where he was prophesied to discover a cave of gold, silver and salt. He meditated near the area and caused a landslide that opened the cave door to endless resources, but it's said that he met three people carrying empty baskets on his way to the cave, which was considered very ominous. He knew something was not right. By the time he reached the cave, everything had turned into rock and sand. 

He finally reached Pangpisa through Sombaykha and Jabana, the ultimate destination to which he was directed. It was here that he had to wait till the age of 25 to head to Nub Tshonaparta to reveal the world of treasure wealth that could sustain our country throughout times to come. It was prophesied that he would visit the lake seven times in his lifetime. But as restless as he was, and because of his reputation and the growing suspicion even in Pangpisa, he had to leave for Nub Tshonapatra earlier than prophesized to earn his respect back. That’s when the story my mother told me happened. It was a big failure. Thirty-two carpenters and workers were reported to have been killed that day.

In addition to what my mother told me, some folklore has it that Ap Chundu, the local deity of Haa, was said to have negotiated between the Lam and the raging lake when he was chased by the lake. An agreement was drawn stating that Pangpi Lam and his descendants would never cross Tego La towards Nub Tshonapata. This term of the contract is honoured by the people of Pangbisa to this day.

It's believed that Ap Chundu had a role in the actual prophesy to accompany the Terton to Nub Tshonapata in extracting the golden pillar when the time was right but Sherub Mebar had taken local carpenters ahead of the destined time to put an abrupt end to the grand prophecy.

Terton, who was actually prophesied to live for ages and discover many more treasures died an untimely death in his 30s in Baylangdra, Wangdue.

The handwritten record left by Terton himself and the numerous treasures he left behind support all the tales and events in more incredible details and astounding preciseness.

In my next post, I will share about the thrilling journey of Terton’s Kudung (body) from Baylangdra to Pangpisa and to Paro Dzong within the span of 700 years. Only the skull of Terton's Kudung survived today, and it’s back in Pangpisa, which was on display on the day I visited.

My Mother is Back in Village

I was very happy when my mother went to Thimphu to live with my sister. I always wanted her to lead easy life once we grew up, because she had suffered enough of rural hardship in brining me and my four siblings up. The time had come for her to hang her spades. She could live with me but she chose to live with my sister because she found herself more useful there because my office going sister needed a helping hand in babysitting her two children.

My mother, proud as she should be, gave away our cows and hens, left the fields fellow, locked our home and came to Thimphu to live with her daughter, along with our baby sister. In Thimphu, the sunburn on her face soon faded, her rough fingers softened and she gained weight. It was the beginning of a happy chapter in her life. She was the queen of the family with a loving brother inlaw.

She would visit me briefly from time to time, and we would talk of our village and people there. Soon we had very less subjects to talk about, because she didn't have anything more to talk about our village. I could sense a subtle longing in her during the long hours we spent near the TV in silence. She would sleep in the afternoon like a baby and mostly grumble about petty thing. My once confident mother who was a leader of kind in our village sounded so subdued over time.

How can her life be so wonderful in Thimphu when she personally had nothing significant to aspire to in life, given the kind of person she has always been. She would wake up in the morning and help prepare my little sister and niece for school, then after my brother inlaw and sister left she would take my nephew out to play. When the little boy would get tired of play she would put him to sleep and fall asleep alongside. She had managed a few friends in the neighbourhood with whom she would spend her long lonely afternoons.

In the evening when everybody returned home she would make them tea and spend the next hours running after the kids. Over dinner they would watch TV and there she would have no common topic with school going and office going people. If some guest showed up she would help with tea and snacks but if the guest was not a family member she knew, then she would take the kids into another room and wait till they left. This was her daily routine. It could have been so beautiful if it was just for a week or month but it went on for years. It was like she was waiting for the end purposelessly.

With My Ashim and our children on the way home

My mother had put on a visible amount of weight, lost her frontal teeth, complained about illnesses and had become so emotional. Every time I met her I felt little more guilty and when she nagged about petty thing I would even give her advices but deep inside I asked myself -what have we done? We were loving her in a wrong way. We took her away from home, leave her in urban isolation, make her so vulnerable to lifestyle diseases and proudly thought we were giving her our best.

Even when I thought of my village, I would first see the lock on our door, then I would see the faces of all the people who dies in last few years and even in my dreams I see my villages in gloomy weather. My villages without my mother wasn't quite the place I would want to think of. All the beautiful memories of village seemed somehow dimmed.

Toward the end of last year my mother expressed he wishes to return home because my little nephew has come of age to go to nursery school. Along with her our little sister would return too because the two of them were inseparable. Though we were worried about our little sister's education for long time we respected her decision this time.

My little Sister and Mother in the Village

Now my mother is back to the village and my sister goes to Chundu Middle Secondary School, which is just over ten minutes walk from our village. Our fields are green again, house is dusted and our chimney is smoking again. Sunburn has darkened my mother's face again but I can see a broad smile on her dark face. There are endless things in village that keeps her busy and during auspicious days she goes to village temple where elders would gather to sing Mani and chat about life.

My Happy mother with her children and Grandchildren

When I visited home last month she looked very happy and busy. I don't have to worry about lifestyle diseases anymore because she is physically engaged in some many village activities. And during the lazy afternoons she spends time with neighbours and chat endlessly over tea. She has gotten rid of her nap habits too. Her confidence is back and she is everybody's Aum Gaki in the village. I hope she will soon get back her posts as Village Health Worker, Manager of Milk Booth, Member of Women Association of Haa...

And Remember, last time during the Royal Visit she was chosen to offer Tshogchhang and that's when she was blessed with the photograph of her life with His Majesty, Her Majesty and the prime minister.

The Photograph of Her life, and ours!

Now when I think of my village I first see my happy mother's face and then our green fields. I have good dreams of my village and I once again feel like a hostel student longing to go home. Home is where mother is happy. 

Disclaimer: My village has road, electricity, etc. and is only 4 km from the town. It has three high school high schools and a junior school within five km radius. Therefore the village I am talking about cannot be related to many difficult ones across the country. I am only talking about life in my village. There are many other villages in which I won't imagine people leaving their parents for whatever reasons. 

The Picture of a Lifetime

My mother received the honour of offering tshogchang to His Majesty the King, Her Majesty the Queen and the Prime Minister during the tokha in Yangthang Tshakha. My mother would not have dreamt about a day even faintly close to this, to see their majesties up close, talk about her life and children, and pose for a photograph, with His Majesty's hand on her shoulder. 

This is a photo I will cherish for the rest of my time, the best moment in my mother's hard life.

My Mother with His Majesty the King, Her Majesty the Queen and the Prime Minister (Source: Ashi Jetsun Pema's official Fan Page)

My Mother's Donation to My School Museum

When I was planning my School Museum I called up my mother to help me. She already gave a long list of things she could help me with. But I had to reject some of her offers because I am not after antiques and valuables.

My Mother went home briefly and returned with load of stuffs for my museum. She has asked our village folks to help her son. She was surprised that not much is left in the village now.

If you have rural stuffs Please donate to my school Museum. Even torn and broken stuffs will work, after all it's a museum.

These are from my mother: (Do you want to try the quiz again? Name them)

1

2(a,b,c,d)

3

4(a,b,c)

5

6(a,b)

7

8(a,b)

Father's Name

My father died in 1984, a year after I was born. He shouldn't have jumped into the river, because rest of the passengers survived that fateful bus accident near Katso bridge. I only saw a picture of him when I became 16. Now I am 29, one year older than my father when he passed away but in last many years I had to write his name over a thousand times. From admission form in school, to security clearance form, to job application form,  to income tax from, to promotion form,... every paper on earth seems to want my dead father's name. Sometime I feared it might not let my father rest in peace.
My poor mother gave me the life I am living today, but nobody seems to place any importance in her except myself. No paper ever had a space to write her name. I wish someday we acknowledge the role of a mother in a child's life and ask her name.

My Mother GAKI!

Emotions aside, even if I didn't have a father who held my fingers through life I at least had his name. Let me write it one more time: Lt. Phub Dorji. And some people would read it Lieutenant Phub Dorji. But there are hundred others who have their fathers alive but don't have names to write. These children are victims of so many deprivations in life and the only thing they generously get is humiliation. And I don't think I can write comprehensively on the influence of humiliation on life.

Therefore, I would like to join women activist Kesang Chhoden in seeking government's attention on the 178 cases she brought forth from the dark shadow around Kanglung College. While her demand for DNA Bank may not be easily possible, I hope she has some very practical proposals in place to take the matter ahead. Government should be wise enough not to try and justify the legitimacy of the children or defend itself, rather join the cause for change, so that long after today history will remember them.

Mathematically speaking mother is a constant, no one will ever question the mother of a child,  while father is just a variable and therefore questionable. Finding x can be very difficult and I wonder why all the papers want the name of a variable than a definite constant.

My Mother is giving up

My mother was in Thimphu during the earthquake. She told me, "Since you all are away there is nothing to worry about in the village". She went home after six days to check on our house. Though the house was still standing there were several large cracks running down the entire mud wall. Rooms were filled with debris from the broken walls. But she returned to Thimphu that same day, without even cleaning the rooms.
She later told me, "If this house falls to ground as well, I am not going to build another house." I could see tears welling in her eyes.
Our village Yangthang rose from ashes after 2002 Fire. It took years before we had a roof over our heads. We  not just lost our homes in that fire, but our history and memories. What we lost after the fire changed the whole course of our lives. During construction we were living in huts, where we lost all our ancestral inheritance. We learnt to live without it, just then we lost our father. By the time we entered our new home we had nothing.
My mother is giving up, she doesn't want lose so much again. I wish our house will stand strong and not let my mother relive the trauma of building a new home again.

Wangay's Letter - "Bereaved leave"

Wangay is a teacher in Phuntshothang Middle Secondary School, Samdrup Jongkhar. I don't know him but his letter (see the picture) published in Bhutan Observer yesterday connected to me. He had to come to school to attend to his duty leaving behind his grieving wife whose mother passed away. In times of sickness and death even enemies join in to give helping hand but because he was a working man who ran out of allotted leave, he failed so much as a husband.

When I was in my first year of college my father passed away. My sister was one year senior to me in the same college. Two of us cried our long journey home. I cried more when I thought of how my mother would be, and cried even more thinking about our three younger siblings. Our youngest sister was only three then. When I reached home I rushed to see my mother, why has already cried herself to unconsciousness. My little sister was among the villagers trying to revive my mother, she wouldn't know what had happened. She would say her father has gone to collect firewood. My youngest brother was on his way back from school and hadn't yet known his father was dead. My other younger brother was strongly waiting for us, since he was the eldest when we were not there.

All our close relatives living in Thimphu provided us with all the money we need to preform the funeral rites, but when it comes to being by my mother's side they weren't there for even a single night. We children were the only people surrounding the widow. And the most ugliest, most regretful and the most inhumane part of that story was our early return to college. The two eldest children left their mother on the seventh day because of our unforgiving attendance system in college. If we didn't have the required attendance we wouldn't be allowed to sit for exams no matter what. Even today, it pains me so much when I think of that system, and my biggest regret is the choice I made- I chose too leave my broken mother for a damn college.

This is my story among thousands of your stories. Of all the times in life shouldn't we be given a special leave  when something like these happen? These are life changing moment that don't happen often. And with Wangay, I wish to urge the government to think over it. It's should matter if it isn't in American system, Bhutan is the first country that should welcome "bereaved leave". Please.

Ghajini Awards goes to My Family

Some years ago, I used to be surprised and even annoyed at my mother's forgetfulness- there would be towel on the gas stove, plate in the toilet, ladle in the closet, leave the stove burning, ... she would laugh out loud and say, "O, I forgot it". I would beg of her to be mindful, "Mother, Please, please don't forget." But she would forget again. When I insist too hard to be mindful, she would ask in irritation, "How could I help? It happens, I don't intend to." She deserves the Life Time Ghajini Award.
It has been a few years since I became forgetful too, and then I came to realize what my mother meant. But my wife won't believe me when I say, "I can't help it." I even forget my car in the school and reach home on foot, thank god I reside near by. It would be Best New Comer Ghajini Award.
"Have you seen my phone?" is the question I hear from my wife twenty times a day now. My wife has joined the Ghajini gang too. And now she would realize how forgetting happens. But compared to my brother and son, she is nothing. Yet I thought she deserves the Most Promising Ghajini Award.
My brother forgets everything, every time, and when asked he would giggle and say he has forgotten. Amir Khan must have worked damn hard to perform that good in the movie, but if it were my brother he would have done so naturally. No one can snatch the Best Ghajini Award from him- swear!

The Ghajini Family

Next in line is our son, who at this very age forgets everything he doesn't like. He forgets his homework, leaves his book in the class when it is needed at home and at home when it is asked in the class. He forgets to bathe, brush, and polish his own shoes. He doesn't know where he left his unwashed clothes as long has he has a new set on his back. One thing I like about his pattern of forgetting is He could choose what he wants to forget- or so it seems. He should be awarded Outstanding Ghajini Award.
Only mindful person in my family is my little daughter, who surprises us with her ability to trace the lost phones, gas lighter, remote controller, slippers, etc. - and my wife say, it's because she is the one who hides it.

If I Write a Book on My Mother...

My Mother- Cendrella so far

If I write a book on my mother dear, only the first chapter won't have to be written with blood and tears. The first chapter of her life was happy, born with a silver spoon but her luck soon ran out and her Cendrella-ordeal began. Despite being a daughter of a Dzongda, she had to fight the hardship of village life alone. She was deprived of education and gradually parted with her little inheritance. My young mother had to cremate  four parents and two husbands before I came of age to wipe her tears.
If I ever have to write the second chapter I will have to write of all those people whom I have tried all my life to forgive, people who walk this earth with pride because my mother was humble, people who rub shoulders with titans because my mother was innocent, and people who enjoy the smoothness of silken nightgown because my mother chose to remain in rags. My mother's good heart that I inherited reminds me each day that revenge is not the solution. Every time I think of writing about my mother, I think of those people who made my mother's life miserable and even on mother's day I wrote nothing.
My mother is living the last few chapters of her life and I am going to restore her birth rights- she deserves happiness in each word of each page, and I am going to make sure these few chapters justify the whole purpose of her life. I swear I will give up all my faith in god if he takes her away before I could give her all the happiness in the world.

Home Going

Yangthang in snow, Dec 2009

Hurray… I am going home. There is no greater feeling. One thing I hate about having a job is not getting to stay where you belong. But thank god I am a teacher that I get regular vacations. The studently excitement of mid term break and winter vacation die hard and thankfully the right to them is intact in my case.

Over the years everything changed; I have no friends in the village, kids there don’t know me, old people hardly recognize me, even the village itself is unwelcoming after its rebirth from the ashes of February 2002, and at times I get a feeling that I no more belong there. But someone there remained unchanged ever since I could remember, my mother, for whom my heart is fully inclined. She always awaits my arrival at this time of the year, perhaps for the last eighteen years. Today mobile phone keeps us almost together though but home going is something so special that I can never misplace it in the chaos of time and change.

I love to see my mother beam with joy and pride when I am at home. We have stories to share still. This is our best gift for each other. And I wish my sister could realize it sooner.