Interregnum

Paro, Bhutan: Paro Dzong over the river and Tadzong (the watch tower) in the far background

As I've commissioned myself in writing a scrap, the first draft ever, I am afraid to let you, my beloved readers, know that I am going to frequent here even more seldom. The following is like the prelude. The purpose of posting it here is to share with you the gist of 'why I have self-commissioned so?' I wish it may grow more fervent that leads me to an end. It's like an autobiographical fiction work. It's like 'whenever you fall short of what to write about, go back to your childhood.' :)

The sickening tendency of getting obsessed can be the most unbearable thing at the given moment like tuning oneself to an infernal noise, hunger, thirst, addictive substance that one doesn't have at the moment, etc. It only exacerbates further. And so through such personal malaises one can find an instant conducive solution as the best for the moment. It’s nothing other than diverting or learning to divert one’s attention to something better way possible. It does work as I have tried the same like finding a ready made gift. Like, at this instant, the infernal noise of drilling machine on the above floor challenges me as I am applying this magic antidote. It works.

And so a sprightly will matters the most to be there at the lair of one’s wish or dream, or at least to test oneself as the situations present themselves to face on. And I have lacked such a will so badly for the thing that I have wished to try on, to write a story. I have to have it and with such one, even if not fervently spontaneous, that craves for the same thing I feel how I react rather practically now rather than just letting pass fleeting wishes into darkness and come back so at sporadic moments dotted over years. I would catch it and let it work so far as I have this will strong enough to content myself at least. There you are, the snotty village lad and you have managed to live on through oddity after oddity that remains as the core of my tickling interest patch to begin with.

Even if my initial desire was to begin from my parental native place Dromo in Tibet by scraping off everything my memory holds what I had heard about there and their lives, I have to let go of this urge for the purpose of dealing with what I know and what I am best suit for as I think I know myself better. It’s like if I can only go that far about my own childhood times, how I can manage to get beyond and get them in proper order. How possible I could give serious ear to their repeated but broken pieces of narration about the goodness in our own country before it was occupied by Red China and the flows of lamentations plus adventurous flight to the initial acute hardships in getting settled at Paro Chujakha, Bhutan. I was so small and I was only 10 when I had to leave home for the journey reserved for this odd sibling of the four. It was like getting parted by space and time but not by mental linkages that still hunt there, the first stable footing in exile for them and my sisters. Especially I was born there, the odd sibling. Ngodup was sitting at the end of the bed and lost again thus.