The Weather of Memory

                             - By Jamyang Drolkar Phuntsho (Year 5) One fine morning, our hero stared through the window, thinking "Maths is so boring.." But just as he was thinking he was called to the blackboard to write the answer to a question. He had no clue what the question was. Our hero started to panic. He thought "I can't do this! I'm no match for a question I didn't hear!" Everyone in class was watching, he couldn’t think straight with all the thoughts of failure swirling through his mind. So he guessed the answer. Not with one number. Not with two. Not with three. Not with four. Not with five. SIX whole numbers. Others thought he was stupid to put six numbers into one answer. Some thought he was certain to have the wrong answer. Our hero just had to have hope. The teacher stepped forward. As quiet as a mouse. She took one look. Another one. And looked so surprised she could hold a surpr...

In Khaling, evening study was not really evening study. It was a government-approved method of trapping young boys inside classrooms before dinner and expecting them to suddenly become scholars inside rooms that still held the last light of day, among tired blackboards, old wooden desks, and the slow boredom of evening study. Every class had to study in its own room. A teacher would be on duty, walking from class to class like a watchman of discipline. The class captains helped with the monitoring, because in school, even children were given small positions of power so they could begin learning the pleasures of authority early. That evening, the teacher on duty was their Chemistry teacher. He was also their class teacher. Young man. Early twenties. From India. Full of energy, confidence, and possibly a little too much faith in his own martial arts background. Our hero, by then, had arrived in Khaling with a fairly clean record. At least by his own generous standards. He had not yet com...

In Khaling, our hero somehow ended up becoming unofficial labour for the English teacher. The English teacher lived within the school premises and quietly ran a small restaurant from his residence. Students who had money to spare survived on his fried rice, chilli chops, bondas, singaras and other oily miracles that made hostel food taste even more tragic in comparison. The arrangement between teacher and student was simple. Our hero carried sacks of rice from the town to the teacher’s house. In return, the teacher served him fried rice in carefully measured quantities. The sort of fried rice that disappeared emotionally before it disappeared physically. Still, for hostel boys constantly hungry, even measured fried rice felt close to happiness. One afternoon after midterm examinations, our hero was once again transporting rice bags uphill like a small overworked mule. Somewhere between the carrying of sacks and the serving of fried rice, the English teacher casually mentioned that he ...

After Class Eight, our hero finally graduated from Wamrong Junior High School and secured placement at Jigme Sherubling Higher Secondary School in Khaling. For reasons still unknown to mankind, the new students were interviewed individually before admission. Perhaps the school wanted to assess character. Perhaps intelligence. Perhaps hidden criminal tendencies. Naturally, our hero attracted immediate suspicion. The Assistant Principal interviewed him personally. The AP asked many serious questions about studies, discipline and future ambitions, though years later he remembered only one question clearly. “Do you smoke?” Our hero replied calmly, “No.” The AP stared at him for a few seconds before saying: “You have the face of a drug addict and you are saying you don’t smoke.” That was the official beginning of his higher secondary school life. A strange welcome. Khaling was different from Wamrong in every possible way. New school. New hostel. New faces. New routines. Only a handful of hi...

  Sometimes I wonder what I would have looked like to Shantideva. Probably just another restless man, distracted by quiet ambitions, old dreams, wandering thoughts, and the noise of ordinary life. A man trying to hold onto things already disappearing. And yet, I think I would have sat quietly near him. Not asking questions. Not seeking miracles. Just listening. Because there is something about certain people that makes your mind grow silent around them. As if they had already walked through every confusion you are still struggling to name. The older I grow, the more I admire him. Not because he sounded wise, but because he remained compassionate in a world that gives people every reason not to be.

  At an age when most people were busy discussing cholesterol levels, property loans, school fees and knee pain, our hero found himself consumed by longing once again. Not a longing for material things, but for something far more difficult to forget. An unbearable longing for  Mañjughoṣa. Or so he told himself. Some mornings, before his eyes had fully opened, the thought of Mañjughoṣa was already there waiting quietly beside his waking mind. Some longings endure quietly through time. He thought of Mañjughoṣa while brushing his teeth. While standing under the shower. While eating quietly alone. Even during the smallest and most ordinary moments of life, the mind wandered back again. On public transport, while strangers stared endlessly into their phones, he looked outside the window pretending to observe the city. But deep inside, memory was moving through old landscapes only he could see. Every song seemed to remember something he was trying to forget. Certain lyrics suddenly ...