The Sustainable Odyssey
By: U Sharma
Babesha, Thimphu-Bhutan
He loved the pair of Wellingtons as much as he loved his long-handled mop.
“Well,” he said, with a broad grin on the thickly bearded face, “just a decade old.” He laughed aloud and continued. “I treasure them as much as I treasure my maniacal life.”
That was how the slovenly-man answered when people asked him about the age of his time-honored boots, making him an object of ridicule.
He equally loved his bamboo flute that he always hung on his neck. And, his close to heart companion was a Sony walkman with recording provisions in it. He carried a watch in his pocket and a mobile set that he always kept at ‘OFF’.
His size was camouflaged by the long loose dark dress he wore. His face had a florid complexion. Uncared ringlet swung on his pumpkin-shaped head. He looked large, scruffy and frightening as well. However, he boasted of having no innate vanity in him.
The bright-eyed and bushy-tailed man was liked by all for his savoir faire and winsome nature. Children called him Snotty Uncle while the hoi polloi, en masse, called him Paagal Karma.
The soft-spoken, multi-lingual madman could be seen, sauntering and at times, singing, in almost all the districts of the country. The crazy man, sans doubt, was omnipresent. It was reported that if he was seen on the hummock top of Drametsi one day, he would be seen walking briskly towards the all-the-year windy, Yonphula, the other day. He was, indeed, a restless and an adventurous wanderer.
Records, however speak less of the mode of transport he used in his inestimable odyssey to different places______ vehicle or Shank’s pony. Some reports speak that he was seen in the poverty-stricken village of Langdurbi, Zhemgang, in chill January, frolicking with the porcupine-haired, stunted and uncivilized (barbaric) peoples who survived on wild yam, fruits, corms, wild bananas and flowers.
“Snotty Uncle,” hollered a boy, “can you sing one English song for us.” He scratched his chin and stared at Paagal Karma, while his mates continued playing Frisbee in a large circle in a park at Phuentsholing, the commercial town of Bhutan.
Paagal Karma placed his mop over his shoulder, and moved his ears. That was one of his sui generis skills that others lacked.
“I shall try,” he said and sang Phil Collins’ ‘Another Day in Paradise’ to its end.
The kids looked god smacked and befuddled.
“I wish I had his je ne sais quoi ____ that voice in him,” said the tallest boy in the group, holding the plastic disc in his hand.
“Damn you, God! You are partial at times,” he cursed the Omnipotent God.”
The boys, fifteen in number, collected a sum of one hundred and fifty Ngultrums for entertaining them. The Paagal, with the unique panache pocketed the bonus paid to him on gratis and laughed out aloud.
“Kuzuzangpola, Loebay,” said the shabbily- dressed madman to the policeman on guard at the entrance gate to the Tashichhodzong (the seat of the Royal Government of Bhutan).
“You Paagal! How dare you come here? Get the hell out of this place,” hollered the uniformed sentry.
“This is where only the sane people walk in,” roared the man from the sentry-box further.
Disappointed, the unwelcome visitor turned back, put off the recorder on the walkman and headed briskly towards the A-road.
One fine chill morning of November, the self-made maniac walked into the residential premises of a minister in Thimphu. A Toyota hatchback, a Hyundai coupe and a Toyota Hiace bus stood in line outside the detached house. He stood on the driveway and looked at the large lawn through the herbaceous border. A sprinkle stood in the middle of the lawn while a rockery boasted its existence with exotic flowers and shrubs in full growth in the east of the lawn.
Paagal karma started cleaning the glasses of the hatchback.
“Don’t you know, charlatan, that this is a minister’s car?” yelled the chauffeur of the minister to the self-employed cleaner.
The minister looked out to the driveway through the picture window.
“Who is this scruffy-looking man?” roared the minister to his driver.
Paagal Karma could hear what the minister said to the driver, and yet he continued feigning not have heard anything.
“Lyonpo, Kuzuzangpola. I am trying to reach this car to the most difficult and neglected places; Langdurbi, in Zhemgang and Nichula in Dagana,” said the madman, rubbing the windscreen.
“Give him five Ngultrums and throw him out or tell him vamoose from the premises. Remember to secure the gate,” said the minister to the chauffeur.
The raucous words fell on Paagal Karma’s ears. More importantly, the words were recorded on the walkman. He switched off the walkman and skedaddled from the scene like a choleric wind.
“Om Mani Padma Hung, Om Mani————–,” came an invigorating sound into the ears of the madman as he walked towards the Jigme Dorji Wangchhuck Memorial Chhorten, located a little above the Indian Military Training Team (IMTRAT) hospital in Thimphu.
A mendicant sat on the pavement holding a crumpled aluminum plate in his hand. He wore maroon-colored robe, dress of the clergy, and counted the rosary beads. Paagal Karma stood in front of the beggar and dropped a five-rupee note on the rusted plate, quarter-filled with, otherwise, coins.
Just in a trice, a large throng of pedestrians gathered around the sui generis duo of the beggar in monk’s dress and a generous madman. The scene was ironical, per se.
“Look at that sturdy Paagal,” said someone from the crowd.
“He probably doesn’t know the value of money. Who the hell will give five Ngultrums to a beggar?”
“Generosity is in-born; not made,” said someone who had heard the earlier remark.
The mendicant closed his eyes and continued begging.
The madman looked at the pious beggar and started giggling at the top of his voice. He waved at the crowd and walked away, playing the bamboo flute in a sentimental tone.
A long queue of sick people stood in front of a doctor’s chamber in Jigme Dorji Wangchuck National referral hospital. Paagal Karma walked onto the rest room, resting of the preserved mop on his broad shoulder.
A nurse approached him. Sensing something unusual in the man, she stopped him and called him to relax on a wooden bench kept in the resting patio. He sat like a faithful sage. Most ostensibly, he liked the wheedling tone in her request to take a seat.
“You deserve treatment,” said the nurse with a wheedling tone in her voice, “and you are in the right place and time.”
The madman seemed to be soulfully touched by her camphoric words. He sat staring at the stoic walls pro tem. He turned to the nurse who stood like a toddler, anticipating a sweet from her mother.
“You don’t know my illness nor can the doctors diagnose it,” replied he, biting his rough nails. Unfortunately, he happened to bite to the quick.
“I am sated with treatment like those there in the queue,” added he, sounding satirical, and pointing his finger to the long line of panacea-seekers.
He stood up and sauntered the psychiatric wards. He knew where it was located. The nurse witnessed a considerably lengthy conversation between the doctor on duty and the madman. She behaved a fly on the wall in her own way.
It had been two days that Paagal karma had not eaten any food. He approached a boy of late teens, who was ploughing the field in a remote farm in Nichula, in Dagana district.
“May I have something to eat on payment? I am literally famished……’” said he to the spent boy, scratching his left ear with a little finger.
The ploughboy whispered something to the equally dead beat oxen. As intended, the obedient pair came to a simultaneous halt. The boy wiped the sweats off his face.
“Come with me,” said the boy, walking towards the house. The boy, a good Samaritan, offered a plateful of beaten rice and a glassful of curd.
“I am sorry I don’t have anything more delectable than this stuff,” confessed the generous boy.
The traveler was touched, moved by the generosity of the plough boy.
“Are you not attending school?” asked the satiated traveler.
The boy, in turn, stood looking touched, on the other hand. Yet, he managed to remain calm.
“Or is it that you have the No Objection Certificate (NOC)?”
The youth sat looking god smacked at the sui generis concern of the shabby stranger.
He remembered his results of 92% in Indian Secondary Certificate (ISC) examinations in science stream. He had cursed his fate when he was denied the so-called NOC just because he was a Lhotsampa.
“How come this mad-looking man is conversant with the concept of NOC?” murmured the youth, looking at the visitor from the head to the toes.
“Your 92% doesn’t give you the document for you are a southern Bhutanese,” he recalled the words of an official in authority.
“The so-called official even confisticate my academic transcripts and certificates,” he cried, narrating his hard-luck story to the avid listener.
The strange visitor laughed at him, quietly switching off the record button on the walkman. He left the house with a great sense of gratitude, albeit unexpressed.
It was 9.30 a.m. The government offices had just opened.
“Kuzuzanpola, Dasho,” greeted Paagal Karma, intruding into the office of a senior official.
“Dasho,” he said with lion-heartedness, “I have come asking for alms. I haven’t had food for the last three days.”
As the official rotated his chair to turn towards the intruder, the madman, as per Bhutanese etiquettes, bowed to his knees in front of the official.
“Out of my sight, you rascal,” said the irascible officer, lighting a piece of Marlboro Lights.
“Thank you, Dasho. You are a great help, I must say,” said he and walked out. He switched off the recording device. He crossed the road towards another office apartment. A passing car nearly hit him.
“Hey man! Are you blind or are you mad?” hollered a willowy lady at the wheels.
There was a Bon Jovi’s ‘Have a Nice Day’ number being played on the car stereo.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed and walked straight. He checked into two more offices. The doors were not open till then. The time, by his pocket timer, was 11 a.m.
He walked to the main road. Sitting at the base of a willow tree, he started playing the flute, looking at the catkins above. The music of “Nga Nim Chi Punakha Lu Sedyee Jowadalu, Punakha Gi Throm Khana Bum Chi Thoyesa’ filled the air. He was a real flutist.
“What could have happened to Paagal karma?” said Avinash to his friend Touchu, as they walked along the Doybum Lam in Thimphu.
“He hasn’t been in his usual perky self lately,” Avinash added.
As Avinash spoke thus, Paagal karma walked to them from nowhere, sweating profusely.
“Take care of my mop. Don’t say no. I will pay you the money. Really, I will,” said he to the boys, acting to be in a rush, and sobbing hysterically.
“What’s wrong with the mop, anyway? What’s….?” asked Avinash, throwing a straight look at the help-seeker.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I just want to keep it with you until my return……”
“Return! Return from where—-?” Touchu interrupted.
“Are you going to visit a distant madhouse for rehabilitation?”
Rivulet of tears rolled down the madman’s face as he heard the words.
Avinash closely studied the hastened man. He conjectured something…. something worth sussing.
He turned to Touchu.
“May be he has a genuine mission and a purpose,” said he and agreed to take care of the mop.
“Thank you,” said the madman, giving the mop to Avinash. Soon, he was seen running towards the bus the bus stand like a bewildered deer.
“Trrrng! Trrrng—–!”
Tin tabulations could be heard early in the morning in the revered Gantey Goenpa. Paagal karma circumvented the religious house three times, chanting, ‘Om Mani Padma Hung.” He rang the bells and rotated the prayers wheels as he made the rounds.
The untimely sound of the bells alerted the flock of pigeons that pecked millet-mixed mustard dish kept on the bird tables.
He walked out of the courtyard softly, fully sated with the unseen blessings from the guarding deities.
Tourists moved here and there in the wide valley of Phobjikha, the winter residence of the black-necked cranes that migrate to Bhutan from Tibet-China every winter.
Paagal karma was seen standing outside the Birds Observatory, erected by the Royal society for Protection of Nature (RSPN).S
“Bye! Bye! The Guest Birds! Let you have a full joie de vivre,” said he, readying himself to leaving the valley.
The revered birds stooped in grace; pecking on the tender dwarf bamboo shoots.
“Excuse me,” said a blond boy, softly patting the madman on his shoulder, adding, “May I have a few words with you if that doesn’t irk you?”
Paagal Karma looked at the exotic boy with a handful of surprises.
“Yes. But why…?”
“Do you speak in French?” asked the blond boy, who was a French national, while his group members concentrated on the guest birds, albeit listening to the tête-à-tête.
“Oh! No. No….,” replied the madman, displaying the savoir faire in him. “Just a few words, occasionally,” he added, rubbing his bearded cheeks with his right palm. The tourist boy felt at ease.
“Well, it’s nice knowing you,” said the boy, extending his hand for a shake.
Paagal Karma extended his sturdy and hirsute hand as well.
“When are you going back to Paris? I guess you are from there. Just give my ‘hi’ to Zinedine Zidane, my idol.”
“This man deserves treatment. He seems to lack it. What could have led this versatile man to lead this horrendous life?” said a member from amongst the group, who somehow was distantly related to Zidane.
However, Paagal Karma’s ears by-passed the aroma of the remark.
“ I have sketched, with a coterie of nation-lovers, plans to make tourists destinations and attractions all over the country within a decade. I will inform you all accordingly. And, please tell Zidane, if you ever meet him, that his fan shall invite him to this country one day,” said he to the group leader, who had introduced himself a little earlier.
He played his flute, biding adieu to the tourists.
The blond boy gave a US$ 500 note to the buoyant madman.
“Have a grand joie de vivre, I must say,” spoke he and flitted from the scene like a wounded boar.
A lot of gossip about the unique man could be heard from amongst the group members.
“he looks an educated man,” said the blond boy to the group.
“He must be a scapegoat of circumstances,” said another member satirically, “or he could be a man in disguise.”
He sounded ironical, as well.
Unusual activities were taking place in Deorali Basti in Samtse district. The non-Lhotsampas had been allotted the confisticated lands of the Lhotsampas, by the government of Bhutan. The pattern of cropping has been changed. A lot of felling of orange and coconut tress was in full swing.
Paagal karma entered that village. He approached a middle-aged man who was engrossed in cutting down the coconut trees.
“Why are you chopping down these trees?” asked he to the man in action, mustering an easy courage. The man stood agape, rubbing his dirty ear with his palm.
“I want to make space for growing buckwheat and barley,” he said, throwing the long-handled axe to the ground. Paagal Karma found it hard to bear the stink of that man’s body. He chortled a sensible laugh and walked away.
En route, he paid a visit to the National institute of Education (NIE), Samtse.
“Wow!” he shrieked all of a sudden. A ghastly silhouette appeared on the way. He rubbed his eyes and pinched his skin to alert himself.
“Manay____ real name Man Bahadur Chhetri hasn’t your soul found an eternal nook to rest?” he murmured. He ran up towards the academic building. He saw a fan in one of the rooms, through an ajar window.
“Isn’t there another Manay swinging on the fan?” he whispered, looking around to see if there was a fly on the wall. He recalled how Manay, a trainee teacher, was hanged to death in the institute in the early 1990s by the government.
“You were supposed to bring change in the nation produce nation builders,” he spoke, looking at the fan, as if he was speaking to Manay in person.
“Where—-where is the change? The nation awaits your rising from the ashes like a Phoenix. The nation needs you and the like____”
He peeped into different rooms to see if he could see other Manays swinging on the fans.
He assumed that Manay was moaning in each and every room.
“May this apex institute produce true nation-builders,” he said at the top of his voice.
He giggled aloud and ran down the road to the town.
The bell in the police station in Thimphu rang eight times.
“Whew! It’s already 8 p.m.” exclaimed Paagal Karma, standing outside the prison cell, and letting chill zephyr sweep his face. His visage hinted a hidden rage. He had just come out of the dungeon after spending ten days and nights for a minor crime committed intentionally for a social cause.
He left the police station, playing the flute in a mellifluous tune. He sat on a cemented stair and looked down at the adorned Changlimithang stadium that was to host the national day celebration the next day.
It was the 17th of December. Thimphu was agog to witness the national day gala that day. Wangchuck Dorji alias Paagal Karma became the center of attraction amidst the horde of people trying to enter the ground of celebration. His ragged and tattered clothes caught the eyes of the guards at the gate. While others were let in, he was denied the entry into the ground. The guard, ostensibly, wanted to prevent the probable snags. The soignée guard at the other side of the gate let people in, snapping her fingers.
“What, if this madman behaves the way he did in the previous year?” said the guard to himself.
He recalled how this man had saluted the guests unnecessarily during the opening ceremony, damaged the decorations and played the flute while the nation was being addressed by the tin pot king.
The madman pushed the guard and laughed at the top of his voice. He blew his snotty nose and rubbed the mucus on the fence.
“What if he repeats the same in front of the dignitaries?” said the guard, directing him to sit behind the fence.
The shabbily-dressed Wangchuk Dorji alias Paagal karma sat leaning against a willow tree and peeped in through a hole. He couldn’t resist the temptation. He clenched his fists and clattered the teeth.
A flashback ran through his memory. He remembered his school days. He remembered how he was denied admission in college with his 61% results in Arts faculty just because he was late by a fortnight for reporting. He had, the, just recovered from a fatal illness.
Frustrated, he had thought of starting a revolt- bringing act, then.
“Time is not matured for me,” he had said, consoling himself.
“What would happen to others, especially the Lhotsampas and Sharchhops friends, in a similar situation? The elites would have no problem, anyway,” he had said to the walls of his farm house.
“Where are my dreams of becoming a highly qualified person and serving the country?” he had questioned his conscience, feeling as sick as a famished parrot.
“Revolt! Revolt!” a thunderous voice had said to him. And he had remembered the binding triple words ‘Cha Wa Sum’. He remembered his friend, Deepak, a boy with a je ne sais quoi in him. Deepak’s hard- fought 93% results in Science faculty seemed to have frozen into shattered icicles on to the ground. For want of NOC, he was neither offered government scholarship, for which he had well qualified, for further studies outside nor given admission in college inside the country.
“Deepak! Wake up!” he had spoken within the four walls of his room.
“I shall wake up, too. And, one day, you, I and the like shall create wonders_____ and uplift the country from the bottom of the sea of corruption,” he had stated in a state enveloped by confidence.
He further recalled the day he had left his house years back. His parents and the two sisters had gone away on a pilgrimage to Lumbini, the birth place of Lord Buddha, in Nepal. He had stayed back at home with tortured admonitions. His class-mates had enrolled themselves in Sherubtse College in Kanglung, the far-flung eastern village in Bhutan, the only degree college in Bhutan, then, or absorbed themselves in various institutes and institutions outside the country.
His avid mind had compelled him to continue the studies. He knew that the financial stand of his parents were fragile. Nonetheless, listening to Rod Stewart’s ‘Some Guys Have All the Luck’ on an old stereo, he had decided to study, come hell or high water.
He had, in the absence of his parents, amassed together a large sum of money by selling the antic relics and heirlooms that had been preserved for ages, jewelleries and a pair of oxen.
And he recalled, sitting outside the fence, the note written to his parents upon vamoosing from the house.
“Apa, Ama, I am leaving the house to become a man. I have sold the expensive jewelleries and relics that were locked in the drawers. I will use the sale proceeds to educate myself to become an asset to the nation. Don’t look for me. I shall return on my own one day ____ and on time.
May God bless you all? Pray for my success too.
Buchu [son], Wangchuk Dorji.”
He wiped the sweats running down his head on that chill December forenoon. He peeped in through a wide hole on the fence. He could see the hoi polloi, en masse in festive moods, frolicking and enjoying the dramatic gala. He rested his head on the left palm of his hand and brooded for long.
He, then, recalled how he had traveled to Delhi and sought admission in one of the reputed colleges. He had opted an Honors degree in Political science.
All of a sudden, he raised his head and looked towards the gate. He saw a familiar figure coming out of it.
He called the boy to him. He recognized him. It was none other Avinash.
“May I have my mop back if you have kept it safely? I am sure you have it kept well secured,” said he, recalling how the youth had impressed him.
Avinash looked at the bearded face and smiled. He recognized the owner of the mop.
“Give me ten minutes and I will bring it,” said the boy, giving an assurance, and walked away.
Wangchuk Dorji alias Paagal Karma peeped in. People buzzed like bees. He clenched his fists and quickly summarized his entire mission to himself.
“Excuse me,” came a voice.
He turned back. It was Avinash who was standing with the mop, held in his hand.
“Here is your mop,” said the boy, proffering it to the owner. The boy walked away.
“You are the witness to my odyssey. You have seen places and met people as much as I did,” said the owner of the mop, massaging and caressing the teak mop, no sooner had Avinash gone.
The lonesome madman looked a little restless. It seemed he had a heavy bag of ‘something-to-do-fast’ on his head.
He remembered Deepak. He completed the Doctor of Medicine on his own expenses from one of the medical colleges in India. Despite his intense desire to serve his country, he had been denied a job in any of the state-owned hospitals just because of lack of NOC. He was left with no alternative. He opened up a private clinic in one of the commercial towns in India. And that his Hobson’s choice!
Wangchuk Dorji alias Paagal Karma knew that the benevolent decentralization policy of the Royal Government of Bhutan (RGoB) was ineffective. Even a pen-bearer at the grass roots level was corrupt. And he wanted to correct such anti-national and anti-social practices. He had, then, decided to enter Bhutan and travel around the country and study the actual cause of the wilting economic state of the country. And to accomplish that task, he had entered the country under the guise of a madman in the last leg of 1990s.
Paagal Karma straightened his ears and listened to the speech delivered by the king.
“One day I shall, or one of the friends of my coterie, address the nation like this,” he spoke at the top of his voice. People who walked past him overheard and overheard and laughed at the soliloquy of the madman.
“This is how a madman consoles himself,” spoke a middle-aged man who walked past him, holding a young kid by his hand.
Paagal Karma laughed at the passers-by, too, natch.
“What do you know about the mission that I am on? You all are not aware. In fact, you all are forced to remain calm and quiet as to how in which direction is our country heading,” he shouted in a voice that was audible enough even to the ears of the semi-deaf.
“Kho Gaa Mo, Apaa?” asked a boy to an elderly boy, pointing his tender finger at the shabby looking madman.
“You don’t know him. He is a Paagal. Probably, you had not seen him earlier,” replied the father.
The curious boy pressed him in anticipation.
“He is a madman, as I already said____ a Paagal!”
Paagal karma, who vividly heard the remark, laughed at the matured foolishness and ignorance of the so-called father of the inquisitive son.
“Chechay,” he called out. “I am a hero-maker of this land.”
A thunderous shock hit the father while the son became more curios….
“I am a hero-maker………,” buzzed an echo into the old ears.
The Chechey walked few steps towards the madman and dropped a Ngultrums note on the madman’s laps..
“ A pearl in the wrong hands,” muttered the madman under his breath, pocketing the note.
He probably guessed something detrimental in the man.
People started walking in and out. Some offered him fruits, biscuits and ‘datshi’, a traditional sweetened rice dish served to public on cloth pieces on special occasions.
However, he didn’t eat the stuff. Instead, he scattered it on the ground for the birds to peck on. He walked into a greasy spoon near-by and ate a heavy meal like a gourmand.
Walking back, he sat on the spot he had earlier sat. A raven, which was pecking at the scattered grains, flew and perched on a willow branch a few meters away.
“Oh, Revered Bird! What a bad omen you are spreading?” he muttered, staring at the shiny, black-feathered bird. It seemed to strongly loathe the celebration.
The revered bird flew away from the willow branch and perched atop the national flag post that stood on the pavilion inside. It made three harsh cries.
“A raven that looked famished ______ dissatisfied. What an omen? Irony ironical per se,” he muttered, sounding satirical.
No sooner had the bird flown, a girl walked by and stood in front of Paagal Karma. His eyes fell on her lower limbs. They bore severe wounds on both the shins. It seemed they were chronic infections. Pus, smeared with blood oozed profusely. He remembered his doctor-friend, Deepak.
“Deepak, I have a silent sufferer n front of me, sobbing to get medical ablutions,” he whispered. He wished the gentle zephyr could carry the message to Deepak.
Then, he remembered his visit to Jigme Dorji National Referral Hospital, in Thimphu, years back. His intentions were to study the degree of discrimination in hospitals. He knew discriminatory practices didn’t escape even the doctors’ chambers.
He reminisced how he had walked into the psychiatric ward.
“Doctor, if you want me to become all right, help me in healing the wounds of the nation,” he had said to the doctor.
The doctor had surveyed him from head to toe. He had seen a full madman standing in front of him. The doctor had failed to interpret the invaluable remark. Instead, he had scribbled a recommendation letter to a madhouse for rehabilitation.
And, in reality, the interpreter had to be so.
An expatriate, coming out of the gate offered a small carton, enveloped by a newspaper page. Paagal Karma opened it and a square cake slipped into his hands. Over a bite, he ran his eyes across the newspaper.
“Government officials rewarded by the public………!” read a caption on a ‘The Guardian Weekly’ page.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed. He laughed a long and relaxing laugh.
His mind ran to the images of government officials in his country.
“Office doors are not open by 11 am, during working days. Porno scenes flicker on the computer monitor if and when they are open. Do they deserve to be rewarded?” he whispered, recollecting the scenes he had seen in many offices when he walked into them in guise of a madman.
“Oh! What a contrast? Our government officials and their counter- parts in western countries.” He laughed aloud.
“While the public reward the government officials in other countries for their dedicated services to the nation and the hoi polloi, en masse, government officials suck the share of common populace in our country,” he mumbled, shoving the news items into his pockets.
A faint-looking boy walked to Paagal Karma and sat by his side. He started begging. The pathetic scene touched the heart of the people’s madman.
“My nation doesn’t deserve this state of suffering,” he said aloud.
He, then, remembered his encounter with a maroon-robed mendicant on the roadside, years back.
“Look at that Paagal. He probably doesn’t know the value of money,” he recalled the remark that had been shot at by a passer-by when he had given a fifty Ngultrums note to the ascetic beggar.
He looked around. People walked in and out.’ ”What if I offered some money to this poor boy?” he said to himself, rummaging around in his pockets for the dough.
“Will I be shot back with similar remarks?” He decided to give, anyway.
The beggar boy walked away holding the twenty Ngultrum note in his hand.
Paagal karma had almost dozed off when he heard a screaming sound catty-corner from where he sat.
“Help me! Help…..” hollered a man, throwing his hands in the open air.
A man was being flailed by two policemen.
“What crime would the man have committed?” he said to himself. He remembered how he was treated in a cell in the police station.
“I had to steal money out of a foreigner’s pocket to save the life of a hungry, abandoned five-year old kid on the street,” he remembered his confessions to the cop on duty. And the sweet reward to the to the fervent believer of the cliché’ ‘honesty is the best policy’ was a week long bitterly sugary jail term.
He had, during his stay in the cell, studied the working system in the police stations. All he could deduce was the ‘untimely’ justice to the criminals or the innocent; be it a minor or severe case.
He looked at the bloody scene in front of him. The policeman pushed the bleeding man into the police van.
“This is the ‘justice-in-practice’ in my country,” he murmured.
His cruel practice has to terminate,” he whistled.
The honk of a car jolted Paagal Karma out of his reverie. He looked at the exotic cars standing on a large parking lot. The luxurious cars in the capital took his mind to the coarse life style of Langdurbians, in Zhemgang, who had not even seen a vehicle.
“I only wish they____the Langdurbians, stepped into one of these cars one day,” he said, beating his forehead with the palm.
“When are those porcupine-haired, stunted people going to be recognized as a part and parcel of the Gross National happiness package? Why this imbalance and discrimination?.”
He compared the luxurious life-styles of ministers and bureaucrats in coupes and hatch backs to that of the rustic Langurbians, Nichuleans, Sakteneans, Doyas, Bongos and the like.
“It’s high time we woke, friends. Unison _____ unison alone is the only tool,” he said , remembering the coterie of friends, who had been working with him in close nexus in carrying out and materializing the package of the so-called globalize GNH.
“Penjor, Gopal, Yeshey, Roshan, Pema, Deepak, Dawa……. wake up! Let’s march,” he said, looking at his watch. His mind travelled back to the boy he had met in Kalikhola in a farm.
“What an irrationally rational decision of the government to convert 92% results in class twelve science faculty into a plough work from ‘can see to can’t see,’ he whispered, criticizing the discriminatory policy of the government amongst the citizens.
The RGoB has committed a faux pas, in failing to identifying the genius. A mere act of an unbiased process would have created and produced a farrago of polymaths and intellectuals in the country.
Wouldn’t that boy’s degree in engineering or medicines be an asset to the country, which claims to have only 11,000 graduates (officially recorded figures of 2006) amongst the unofficial six lakhs population? Should we allow our brains to degrade down the drains?” he mumbled.
Ironically, the answer he received was a silent but firm ‘no’. He started brooding.
“The root cause of the problem in our country, such as poverty, the greatest enemy of the human beings, exclusion, discrimination, unemployment, violation of human rights and the like, is that the cause itself has not been addressed,” he said, remembering his friends who had been working with him in solving these problems and giving a second birth to the country as New Bhutan with GNH seen afresh and smeared on the faces of each and every Bhutanese from all walks of life.
Happiness, spread on each and every patio and smiles on the, otherwise, suppressed faces of the hoi polloi en masse is what Paagal Karma and his coterie would call, the concrete GNH. He seemed to blame the bureaucracy that had handled and manipulated the working system in the nation for over two decades.
The nation can not afford to tell lies to the people. The hoi polloi can’t be the scapegoats. I know the score and I must inform the people,” he murmured, clenching his fists.
Perhaps, Wangchuk Dorji alias Paagal karma was not pleased with the modus operandi of the government. Nothing had been changed in the life styles of the three-fourth of the population living in the rural areas.
“If we don’t identify and address the root cause of the problems, no false promises could help materialize the long-awaited dreams. Taking care of issues of exclusion, discrimination, unemployment, exploitation, Child labor, forced labor, abject poverty requires unison, mission and strategic action plan,” he whispered under a deep and heavy breath.
“It hasn’t been too late for my country to create a forum for intellectuals. It needs to be created where teachers, scientists, doctors, engineers and other professionals can play a part each and consolidate ideas for reforms. And, to inform the nation I shall start the mission soon,” he spoke to the reticent willow trees around.
“Should there be any enquiries of my mission and the Herculean odyssey, I have the information,” he spoke in a low tone, rubbing his back against the rough face of the willow trunk, and fiddling the walkman with his left hand.
The ground had been emptied by sundown. The madman didn’t move even an inch from his place. People looked at him; turned away their faces, twisted the noses and passed remarks and bon mots.
“Looks like that madman is going to spend the night here,” he overheard someone speaking from amongst the crowd____ the out-going stampede.
“Every place is its own for him,” added another passer-by.
“Innocent Sufferers! You all do not know who I am_____ this ‘me’ and people’s madman. You don’t even know that I am on a long mission for a population of more than six hundred thousands,” he whispered in the dusking chill.
“I know I look a Paagal, and that is my intention in order to save the country,. And, I have finally achieved my objective. I have to save the country from sinking down into the sea of corruption. And, sacrifice of a good number of years is what I have relished to reach this height of my mission.
Donor countries are benevolent in dumping money into Bhutan. Ironically, there is a rampant misuse and misdirection of funds to development of the country at a snail pace. At times, I pity the economists of the donor countries. Where exactly is the money being used and how rationally it being used by the receiving country should be their concern.
Corruption is regarded as one of the leading causes of Bhutan’s under development. It, however, doesn’t mean that developed countries are free from the economic disease corruption. The difference is that it prevails unbridled amongst our bureaucrats.
Corruption, similar to that of other countries, manifests in many forms like bribery, embezzlement, re-direction, fraud, extortion, favoritism, red-tapism, in our country. And, my clandestinely worked out mission carries a package of remedies to eradicate this problem.”
He looked at his watch. The timer read 9.p.m. He switched on the mobile set. His face the mien showed restlessness. Probably, he awaited someone.
“There are serious problems in my country. People are aware. Yet, they are not let open up their mouths. In other words, they cannot protest or speak out the reality. In my basic struggle to stage a platform to fight and correct these deformities, I have had to make colossal sacrifices. I had to lead a disguised life of a madman in order to reform my nation.
People called me Paagal, kicked their boots at me, pelted stones, and threw semi-munched doma stuff at my face. I accepted and I had to accept, nollens-vollens. And, I accepted the treatment for I had to bring my mission to this stage. Who would believe me? Only my mop and flute can narrate the long odyssey to the neglected areas in the country, to places where corrupt activities were rampant.
I had to travel to many places. People and the life-styles of people like in Phobjikha, Nimshong, Shingkhar, Burdoh, Wamling, Langdurbi, Kalikhola, Nichula, Gurung Basti, Bongo, Drametsi, Wambur, Merak and the like are at the tip of my tongue.
I even spent nights; shared meals, be it delectable or otherwise or a meager one of yams and boiled bananas. I journeyed by vehicles to some places while I trod on foot for days to most of the places____ the difficult and the neglected nooks such as Langdurbi, in Zhemgang. I could, in the process, pick some words of local dialect too. Problems are complex. But my package has the weightage and the measure to dust them hard,” he spoke aloud in the darkness.
One or two vehicles could be seen plying on the road that over-looked the Changlimithang.
“I shall be out to execute my mission package for a New Bhutan by midnight. I shall address the nation one day where people from all walk of life stand and share a ‘common happiness’_____ the true GNH,” he whistled in chilled darkness.
He took out his mobile set that he always kept at ‘OFF’. He called his coterie of friends led by Deepak who were on their way to meet him to execute the mission package.
He looked at his watch. Time was 11.45 p.m. There was a call on his set at 12.02 a.m.
“Hello,” he said.
“——–,”
“”Right! 12.30, to a T at Luntenzampa Bridge,” said he, picking up his mop to move.
The End