A son of a humble farmer's life has not been quite simple and
straightforward. Life is a complex phenomenon and no one can make it
necessarily simple if it is not meant to be.
Figure 1. Author with people of Merak
As any kid wouldn't, I don't know where or how I was born. But I can pretty well imagine how my mom and dad must have treated me, because I've seen how children in my village were raised as I grew older. I'm sure they cradled me in their arms and wrapped me in cloth pieces never meant for the job. I'm also sure they left me by the side of the farm while they weeded, sowed, or tended crops, and that my mom remembered me whenever I cried and came to feed me.
But I can tell you a few things about myself and how this phenomenon called life has treated me. Like anyone in this samsara, I've had my share of happinesses and sadnesses, successes and failures, difficulties and ease, comforts and discomforts, and so on.
My mom passed away a year before I started kindergarten, and I walked to school with the other village kids barefoot, often on an empty stomach — and even what little we got to eat, at home or at school, didn't taste very good. But to keep going, I gave my best to survive. I played baktang (cloth ball), rushed for second helpings, fought with my friends, and took plenty of beatings from my teachers. I slept on jute sacks that came to school with the wheat rations (bong kharang), often using my only gho as a pillow. I don't even remember having a quilt during my primary school years, when I stayed in the boarding facility from second standard onward. My hostel was full of bedbugs, and the summers were brutal, but I slept well anyway. My head and shirts — which I rarely changed — were full of lice. My headmaster at the time, a true legend, would spend hours every Saturday afternoon picking lice out of my hair while other children went home for the weekend. It's the love of teachers like him that has shaped whatever good I do today. I don't know how to repay them personally, but I'm sure their wish would be for me to keep helping society.
I'm sure many schoolchildren of my generation had similarly difficult lives. I don't remember my school ever telling us to boil our water until outbreaks of cholera and other waterborne diseases forced the issue — and yet, somehow, I don't remember being seriously sick from water-related diseases either. I don't remember receiving any monitored injections or serious medications. Despite the hardship, I survived. I'm grateful to the Almighty, to the Kings, and to the leaders of that era.
I completed eight years of schooling at my village school — eight years because, before reaching first standard, I had to spend a year each in lower and upper kindergarten, as was the rule. Teachers back then were tough; they could beat us black and blue for the smallest mistakes. There were fewer parent-teacher meetings and fewer disputes — everyone simply did their part diligently. Good teachers were good, bad ones were bad, but regardless of character or style, the authority they held back then felt as immovable as a nearby mountain. They even determined our dates of birth by looking at our faces or asking us our animal-based birth symbols, following the traditional system.
After completing sixth standard — which was a board exam at the time — I moved to what was then called a junior high school for seventh and eighth standard. I was school captain in eighth standard, though I don't remember doing much besides studying. I did well and finished everything on schedule. Life remained tough, but the World Food Program (WFP) provided all our meals, so food wasn't usually an issue — except that our WFP-in-charge, a National Language teacher, only ever fed us meat on paper, which the headmaster fully believed. As school captain, I had the job of verifying the meat, egg, and vegetable bills — nutritious items that never actually showed up in our kitchen. Sometimes we didn't even have salt, because our greedy in-charge seemed determined to eat all our food himself. I couldn't do much about it at the time, since I didn't want trouble with my teachers — but that's when I first started noticing problems among them.
After eighth standard, I changed schools and went to a high school for ninth and tenth standard, which I completed diligently. I got by on one pair of shoes and barely one or two sets of clothes throughout. I remember borrowing a friend's shoes many times — he never told me not to, but he'd give me a disdainful look, which I'd just laugh off. As a hard-working student, I earned a government-funded place in pre-university studies and completed twelfth standard alongside 75 classmates. After that, I joined the Imperial Forest Rangers' Course in India. Without proper counselling, I assumed it was a degree course — but it turned out to be a professional course that didn't count as an academic qualification. Even people with master's degrees were taking the same course. It was disappointing to learn it wasn't academic, but the decision was made, so there was no looking back. I became a Ranger after two years and joined the civil service in Bhutan.
In my job, I always tried to give my best. I saw plenty of anthropocentric problems along the way, and while I had choices, I felt it was only fair to give everything I had — and I did, and I'm happy for it. I never planned to pursue higher qualifications or chase positions more prestigious than Ranger. I was content where I was. But systems are dynamic — they shift with time, space, the people involved, and their own internal nature — so eventually I had to adapt, whether I wanted to or not. I earned several degrees, sat for competitive exams, and adjusted to the changing system. As a result of that success, I moved from Ranger to Officer — though it wasn't really my decision. It simply happened.
I took up the post of District Forest Officer in Trashigang and gave everything I had to the job. I'd planned to retire within the District system, but circumstances pushed me out of it. After some time wandering, I joined the nearest Territorial Forest Division, from where I was eventually posted to a protected area in the far west. And now, I'm leaving this job — not in search of greener pastures, but to open up a seat for one of the many unemployed young people who need it more than I do.
BLESS ME IF YOU WILL
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