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Saturday, October 26, 2013

The Interest Factor

Whenever someone unfurls the carpet of an invitation for me, the first thing I end up doing is to stretch it and clothe the whole stadium of my mind. Inside this stadium, I often watch the dreadful tug of war between acceptance and denials. And amusingly, luckiest are those if they are with the proposals that falls within the zone of my interest. (Doesn’t necessarily mean that I am a well sought invitee or that demanding in nature).    
The balance of interest
Thus, the interest has often been one factor for me to gauge between those commodities of reception and rejection. It works like a hidden compass and performs like any ordinary, showing me the precise direction where to follow.
But one thing I hate about the interest is its existence of bipolarity. Like magnets, it attracts only with the right pole and repels the one that are against its rule.
And miserably, this rule of interest never finds a smooth course to run in the circle of human relations. It is never a good crop to grow in the land of our social life.
For instance, whenever my heartiest friends design a plan to do something, they would have already put me inside the bucket of their plan. And one question I would certainly put up, (which they are at all times prepared) is “who’re the rest?”
I am not concerned about the colour, race or sex of the other members. But I am more concerned of the colour, race and sex of their interest.
We often take into consideration that to socialize, a long list of alcohols and brands of animal fleshes in our menu is indispensable. While to some extent is necessary, to consider the interests of people around is very important. They are just parallel.
This is one reason why I flee or avoid gatherings unless it consists of some official feathers. Human have a tainted belief that gathering is synonymous to whisky and the whisky is a lone engine to run the bus of socialization.
One may argue of its frequency, that gathering takes place only occasionally. But it is this small degree that makes the biggest difference.
We never stand our feet inside the shoe of people who never drink any form of these intoxicants. Not knowing that these drugs slowly eat away their brain cells, the inebriates instead, claim that they see another heaven. The wisest teetotalers then become the best fools to watch the drama of how hell can be easily made out of a heaven.      

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Thromkha to Facebook



Frank Ocean, the popular American songwriter and rapper is believed to have asserted: Whenyou are happy, you enjoy the music. But, when you are sad you understand the lyrics.
Brilliantly crafted. Remarkably said.
When I am often chewed by the cruel teeth of loneliness, the music has always been the best diet for me. The sweetness in the melody of a music often helped me froze the teeth of loneliness from an extra attempt of bite. This aided me further in seeking a refuge under the muscles of music for all the times then.
And it is at this turn of the clock that I realized Ocean’s amazing statement. I was not just diving into a pool of music to let it shut my auricles so that I can’t hear atrocious calls of loneliness anymore.
But, I could observe the fingers of songwriters dressing the lyrics of their song with a perfect fold on their outfit; I could witness the bleeding drops of love falling from their heart; I liked the patience they took in painting their lyrics over and over again so that the music lovers see its beauty from the right angle like them. I admired them designing the best shoes of lyrics so that whosoever buys one, experience the same kind of comfort or pain on wearing it. In all, I envy the prowess in them to do this because it is never a piece of cake to be a lyricist after all.  
I remember the time when Bhutan’s nightingale Mrs. Dechen Pem robbed my heart with her melody titled: Nga Nyim chi Thromkha Joda, Nge gnyandro rnyimda chaeb may (ང་ཉིནམ་ཅིག་ཁྲོམ་ཁར་འགྱོ་ད། ངེས་གཉེན་གྲོགས་རྙིངམ་ད་འཕྱདཔ་མས།). That was probably in grade seven.
 
The song which watered the growth of my infant romance
Whether one relate it to be a branch of an infatuation or a shoot of an obsession, I like rearing the youngness of that feeling in the museum of my same old heart. I can still recall the taste of romance at that age which was so sweet but with a fatally tender stem. The stem used to be so weak that, even during a short span of separation, the mild breeze of Dechen Pem’s voice singing the above song, would crush the stem of my infant love and let it bleed galloons of tears. Today, when I think back of it, I see how the melody of that song cultivated romance in my heart at a very tender age. I see how weighty the lyrics were because I often ended up repeating the same verse while tending cattle in my village.
But until today, I dint realize that the song which sowed a seed of romance in me took a new apron.  I took a roller coaster ride in the Soundcloud.com where I heard the same song with the new lyrics.
Nga Nyim chi Thromkha Joda, Nge gnyandro rnyimda chaeb may (ང་ཉིནམ་ཅིག་ཁྲོམ་ཁར་འགྱོ་ད། ངེས་གཉེན་གྲོགས་རྙིངམ་ད་འཕྱདཔ་མས།) has been converted to Nga Nyim chi Facebook Nalu, Nge gnyandro rnyimda chaeb may (ང་ཉིནམ་ཅིག་ facebook ནང་ལུ། ངེས་གཉེན་གྲོགས་རྙིངམ་ད་འཕྱདཔ་མས།) 
The word thromkha in the first line of the song has changed to Facebook.
 
The contemporary song that might heal the pain of lovers who met in Facebook

The sweetness in the original feminine voice is replaced by a sensational masculine voice. There’s no Dechen Pem anymore but surely there’s Amrith Subba.
Now listening to his song, I think that the romantic Romeo, Mr. Amrith must have discovered his Juliet somewhere from the island of facebook.
“That’s contemporary and it’s 21st century love song for the youth” I sighed that evening. 
Note: The lyrics were written and typed by myself. Errors in the spellings are under the sweet correction of readers. 

Monday, October 21, 2013

Moon is sometimes NOT 'daw' in Dzongkha


I
 remember the time in Kindergarten when I was taught that the equivalent term for the 'moon' in Dzongkha is 'Daw". Since then, after being a teacher, I sang a song with that same old lyric to teach my children.
However, I experienced a wild kind of suffocation inside the prison of a hard mystery today, realizing the same song I sang some time ago. This mystery has parked me helplessly on my chair to the mercy of some hours to mull over.  
The mystery unsolved hitherto, was like restoring carbon produced from the charcoal of misconception that would further blacken and besmirch my teaching. It was like a thorn in my thought that kept on prickling. 
The mystery is nothing typical that can draw the hairs of human attention. But to me, it sounded something as clear misunderstanding.
Almost in every page of publications, through my lens of understanding I read the ‘moon’ as “daw’ in our language. But it's only today that I realized this same word (which it might have its own nature of explanation) proclaiming a different meaning to me.
The way it is referred to in the weekdays sounds rather challenged. If the moon is still believed as ‘Daw’, then it shouldn’t be Sunday that gets the name ‘gza daw’  (གཟའ་ཟླ་བ་). The Sunday should instead be named as ‘gza nyim’  (གཟའ་ཉི་མ་) if the literal meanings of the sun for ‘Nyim’  and moon for ‘daw’  has to be retained
The same Monday with different names
In a Tibetan calendar, they also use moon for ‘daw’ and that’s why they have ‘gza daw’  (གཟའ་ཟླ་བ་) on Monday. Monday is actually believed to have derived from an Old English term known as Monenday, meaning ‘Moon Day’. Tibetan calendar portrays Sunday as gza nyim’  (གཟའ་ཉི་མ་) because it has an astrological meanings with the object like sun. The nature of the calendar is lunisolar that it signifies both the phase of moon and the time of the solar year.
But, since I was characteristically fed with a pure Bhutanese meal of understanding, now I can detect a weak muscle in my tongue to taste the other way. I like speaking in its own way. And I say it because that’s the charm in being Bhutanese. 

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