Kuzu zangpo ( Bhutan Story 1)

Yes Kuzu zangpo,but from which land?
I would have loved to called it...from a Land of Nostalgia....but since I was really a child when the country was a temporary home, I actually have a few insignificant memories of the land. My parents  could not join me in the trip and hence there is no one to help me hunt the bones of memories.

I will have to open a new page with this country which has earned a bounty of epithets. Clichéd  they may sound for sure, but dissenters you will find rarely. So call it : The Last Shangri-la, The Mythical Shangri-la,  The Last Place on the Roof of the World, Jewel of the Himalayas, Magical Kingdom, A Living Eden, Land of the Peaceful Thunder Dragon, Druk Yul.....


If you are of spiritual bend of mind, go ahead with: Lotus Garden of the Gods, Hidden Holy Land, Heaven on Earth…

And because my visit is during a time of the Royal Wedding, I am not too surprised when I hear tourists refer it as: Kingdom in the Sky, Kingdom in the Clouds,  Last Buddhist Kingdom.....

My epithets revolve around my own personal experiences....and my grey cells or heart cells ( I am not sure what they are called ie the heart cells and I am certainly not talking of anatomy or physiology) need some time to form impressions.

But the cooing of the pigeons in a resort built in 1974 in Paro, during the 4th King's coronation........is the only sound I remember from my childhood. But it is only three days, I have just arrived.......

A Living Eden

( People watching the black hat dancers and the cham dances during the festival of Tsechu . )

Paro.

Altitude 2,280 m.

Early morning.

I look out of the window and see the hills and the clouds move languidly over them; as if they are hung in a completely erroneous time frame where the hustle and bustle of life has no meaning. My breath turns into water as it hits the window. M, my little travel companion enjoys sketching faces on the glass panes. Most of the time faces with funny smiles.

This time I am not alone in my travel. J and M are with me. M says we are  J.A.M and yes he is correct; we are sometimes sweet, mild and flavoured, coloured like jam but there are also times when our different colours and flavours puts us into a sticky moods....

I remind myself that we are three people looking out for three different things from this travel. M is always curious and adventurous, J is the most level-headed and often seeks relaxation, and I, the A, is always seeking something....always sure what she does not want from people, from herself, from life but never sure what she wants.

But it’s time to put a break in my reverie and step out of the room.

The province or Dzongkhang of Paro can be called the rice bowl of the Kingdom – stretches of golden fields of the wonderful red rice, almost ready for the harvest, spreads unobstacled but say by a gurgling stream or the rolling mountains. The 176 big and smaller lhakhangs and the 427 choetens and of course the country’s only airport may break the unending golden view with colours and interests of their own.

Paro Dzong or let me call it by its right name Rinchen Ping Dzong, the fortress on a heap of jewels, is not surprisingly our first stop. An impressive example of Bhutanese architecture, the dzong is across the Paro Chhu  connected by the wooden bridge called Nyamai Zam and was built in 1644 by Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal and was used on numerous occasions to defend the Paro valley from invasions by Tibet. In fact there used to be old, gigantic catapults to throw the big boulders but it is Tsechu festival time and the music and dances performed in the dochey ( courtyard within the dzong) pulls us. The crowd and security also gently pushes us towards the performance area than explore the fortress which had survived the 1897 earthquake but damaged badly by the 1907 fire.  The present structure is the rebuilt one and houses the statues of Sakyamuni, Guru Rimpoche and Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgya. Through the festivity filled air we notice the Utse, the central tower built by the first Penlop (governor of the region) and the many lhakhangs within the Dzong. And we notice the people, gathered as families, enjoying the dances, men wearing the best gho and the women with the colourful jackets and kira.....children alike. And with the colourful attire, all wearing the shy or big but certainly a genuine smile.

( The various dances like the masked dance performed during the Tsechu festival.)

The smile comes easily but the food takes time as we lunch on Norsaa Paa ( Sliced Beef cooked with green vegetables), Kewa Datshi ( Potato with Cheese), some Maaru ie curry made of spinach and the red rice. The food most of the time is prepared fresh and it is always better to place orders before hunger strikes....or keep some emergency food handy.


Tucked away in the soft folds of countryside hills is the ruins of Drugyal Dzong ( Victorious Fortress), which tells tales of invasions and victories and gives a clear view of Mount Jumolhari on clear days. A thick silence envelopes the place; broken only by the birds and the rustle of dry leaves beneath ones own feet.
Kyichu Lhakhang, dating back to 7th century, has twin temples- the older built by Buddhist Tibetan King, Songsten Gampo, holding the left foot of the ogress whose body covers the whole of Bhutan and the eastern Tibet and the new one by Ashi Kesang Choedan Wangchuck, the queen Grandmother of Bhutan. I sit under the perennially fruiting orange tree and meditate on the statutes of Sakyamuni, and the 11 headed, 1000 handed Chenresig while M befriends the stray dogs that inhabit every street, house or dzong in Bhutan and J strolls by......


Images of prayer flags fluttering in the winds, spinning prayer wheels and the monks humming the chants lulls me to sleep.....
Tomorrow should be a good day again.

The red chillies...that spice up most of Bhutanese cuisine are seen drying up along the windows or roof tops. 

Wall painting of Guru Padmasambhabha and his tigress.

Murmuring a prayer by rotating a prayer wheel below the Drugyal Dzong.

Churpi- the dried cheese made of yak milk.

The rice fields in Paro.

 They say -

At twilight,

at that moment when the blue night falls on the world,

the world becomes silent,

silent for a moment,

like the audience in rapture after the curtain drapes down the stage.




Perhaps it is this moment- the moment of complete silence

when I hear a muffled voice say your name.

Where are you?

Who else is with you?

Saying what?

Are you busy?

Making big endeavours in a still bigger world?

Or are you thinking of me?

Remembering the smaller moments of my small world?




Why does love come on me

and the whole of me wants you in the evenings,

when the hills recede into blur lines

and the gloomy trees into erasing shadows?




Often I have sat in the steps

Thinking,

Watching the sun sway behind the purple clouds.

Watching it display the wonders of melting into a darkness.

Of dying.




The food has turned cold.

You will be late-as always.

When you will come you will be preoccupied-as ever.

I know you will move into the room called “self”.



 

Where is the key to this room?

Do I have it?

Do you?

Or is it lost?

Lost and gone like the sun.

And we?

We will recede like wonderless, dark silhouettes

Into our “selves”

Into an oblivion

Into death.

( Poem Published in Assam Tribune as a series of poems titled Melancholy Moods and as a part of a write up in The Eclectic. )

Words in the dust...

We had missed the beauty of that twilight.
The twilight of mystical colours and earthly hopes.
The raucous birds had hovered over the river Brahmaputra.
And sunset had lingered on the sky like an old confused person.
I had waited at the same place, alone and forlorn.
And the dying light had wrapped around me, softly,
like my favourite pashmina shawl... like a shroud.
I saw the breathless wind stop its game and rest
in the dry winter grasses and dusty benches.

And sometimes the shadows of the evening trees whispered about some tale
Where hearts had met in the fields drenched with magnesium moonlight.
When love and desires had whirled and swirled in a hot sultry night.
And a Midas hand had turned life into a dream and the dreams so alive.

But tales like this fit only in a fictional story
where things always end happily.
For love, if that is its name, was crushed under the feet along with the dry leaves that day.
And the promise of “walking together come what may” was left unsaid.
And the defeated sun had yielded to a pall of thick darkness.

You had already left, left to be someone else’s.
And now I know I will miss the beauty of all the twilights.

  

(Published in The Assam Tribune as a series of poems titled Melancholy Moods)