The Weather of Memory

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 ...

  By the time he reached Wamrong Junior High School, our leader had already become something between a student and a local disaster. Teachers kept an eye on him the way villagers watched swollen rivers during monsoon season — cautiously, knowing something would eventually overflow. Still, strangely enough, he loved school programs. Debates. Quizzes. Drama performances. Perhaps because they gave him an audience. In one particular drama, he was cast as a criminal. The character was supposed to have two missing front teeth, and the teacher from the literary club carefully painted his teeth black with charcoal before the performance. Under the dim school stage lights, it looked disturbingly real. From even a short distance away, it truly seemed as though his teeth were gone. Which only made him enjoy the role more. The stage at Wamrong was small and uneven, built too close to the audience. The girls usually sat right in front during school programs, close enough to see the sweat on the...

  Weekends in Wamrong Junior High School had a way of leading to trouble. While respectable students washed clothes, wrote letters home, or revised mathematics or Science under dim hostel lights, our hero and his loyal followers disappeared into the hills like a small outlaw gang. They built crooked tree houses deep in the forest that could barely hold two boys at once. They practiced kung fu moves learned from badly dubbed VHS action movies, throwing kicks at invisible enemies and occasionally at each other. They stole rice, eggs and potatoes from the school mess with military precision and cooked them below the tree houses using stolen matchboxes. But their greatest adventure lay on the hill within the school grounds. Up the volleyball court and on the hill were the temporary sheds of workers from India were built since some part of the school was still under construction. The labourers found the boys amusing — half wild, always hungry, always curious. The boys would sit on overt...