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8 February 2010

Wai! I’m a Bhutanese wedged be­tween two generations that are fast moving away from each other. I’m in touch with both. I know the ways of the old generation because I grew up in a sleepy village surrounded by cattle and horses and chick­en. And I know the ways of the new gen­eration because I live in a bustling modern town surrounded by cars and television shows and madding crowds.

Today, as I look back to my childhood, vivid bucolic images come to mind evok­ing a sense of nostalgia. At sunrise, the tethered cows and penned calves would low inconsolably and the chickens would cackle out of the coop. Soon, the mani-chant­ing grandfather would bring home a bucketful of milk and the taskmaker grandmother would carefully fish out freshly laid eggs from the coop. At sundown, everybody would come home with a sense of achievement. As dusk gathers and the guard dog barks into the magically silent night, it’s the grandmother’s time to tell sto­ries by the flickering light of pinewood shavings, moral-laden stories.

Today, I wake up to the sounds of honking cars and groaning engines. At sunrise, I hurtle into a mad street choked with cars and tense with a cacophony of sounds. Out of the street and into the workplace, the talks dwell on cars, buildings, money and land. At sun­down, the social mother is off to a friend’s birthday party, the hard working father is still in the office, and TV addict children are already before their idol watching their silver screen idols. The mother comes home late and tells a story to the children. And so does the father. Both of their stories are about cars, buildings, money and land.

Each generation has a story to tell but their stories are worlds apart. The next genera­tion will tell a story. I don’t know what kind of a story.

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Posted by Chime · Filed Under Ap Tsara Column 

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