My father who is in his late seventies paid me a stopover here in Chukha last July 2006. My mother embarked him to make a sojourn to ensure her son is doing fine serving the government at his best. And obviously she ran little short of funding to hire labour to lend her hand with the farm work this summer.
He arrived with the package of fried butter jam-packed in bamboo stem, some kgs of tengma and kharang in Sangkhu (bag stitched from clothes) and some desiccated fruit. It claimed him almost a week to make it to Chukha, sauntering two days to get to the road head and catching the bus that ply very rarely. He has to make sure that his approach to the road should coincide with the bus timing, otherwise with no other trucks and taxis, the road itself looks disserted and he will have to wait until the bus return for the next schedule.
The longer his trip took the more harm the summer would do to the parcel. The summer precipitation didn’t spare the parcel sent by my beloved mum. By the time he delivered it, the funguses have sprouted in the dried fruit. Some have started rotting and others have become un-edible ready for disposal.
Despite my request to stay back little longer, he could not hold back more than a week. He looks worried about the impending load of farm work back home. The bright electricity, the irritating sound of car whizzing by, the ear piercing honk of the car, congregation of human and other cruelty of town made him stay in no peace. He has to say he is better in his own village where it is more peaceful living among the jungle birds twittering by balancing on the top of his maize tree. He wanted to return home soon as possible where he has cattle and horses to take for grazing, pigs to fed, collect eggs from the bushes before the snake claims the share and other rural business.
He brought me stock of home news. The citrus tree I have planted as a kid from the seed I took out from the mouthful of juicy orange has grown big enough to bear fruit. There are few people living in the village. My younger brother who studies in Class two came with flying result in his mid term examination. The harvest last season was good and he left the land fallow with no helping hand. These were the rural news brought with him. I simply found myself going back to those days of mine in the village before I was admitted in the school. The week long talk we had in the evening after the dinner was barely enough to finish talking about the home, sweet home.
He asked me to accompany him on his return journey till the point he can travel on his own. So, one weekend, we were going to Thimphu en route to hometown at Zhemgang. We happened to acquire the seat near the window in Lamzang Travel. It was raining cat and dog outside yet he could not help with the memories of his past. He unfurled me his stories of the time when he was still a boy of 20 years. Strong and robust in his teen, he told me the stories of constructing first Thimphu-Phuntsholing National highway.
The Thimphu to Phuntsholing National highway which now serves as national economical life line of Bhutan was constructed in 1961. Bhutan was then starting the first planned five-year plan. The road was constructed with the assistance of Indian government. India provided the help in terms of skilled labour, technical support and machine deployment. The raw labour were contributed by Bhutanese farmers for the purpose of clearing bushes for survey, road first cut, dislodging and splitting boulders and other manual works.
Now, wide and well bituminized road with cars, trucks and buses plying almost every second, he envisaged the road he was involved in construction looked nothing like it turned out today. He was wonderstruck with development that has colonized every roadside land. The trees he has sought the protection to sleep at night are now no where to be seen instead towering buildings has surrogated the site.
When government ran short of labour, they called on every farming citizen to participate in developmental activities of the nation. Every household was made compulsory to contribute 15 days labour. When it was their turn, my father started his journey on foot from Zhemgang via Trongsa. With his bagpack consisting of few clothes but dominantly ration to last for 15 days, he left back his parents crying. With advice not to go too close to bull dozer, he made his journey with his friends to contribute his hand for nation building, as we would say now.
It took his entourage one ten days to reach Chapcha in Chukha from where they take over the piaxe, spades, crowbars and other road building saddles. They made hanging by the climber by the cliff, holding each other while crossing the aggressive rivers, halting under the protection of the caves at night looking into the last horizon. He could not even track which direction his village lies, left many kilometers behind. He silently followed every step of his more matured and senior friends.
In return of the dusty work sweating profusely under the Chapcha summer sun, an Indian saib monitored them strictly. They were paid Nu. 3 per day and the kg of rice cost them 1 anna. But they survived with the kharang, maize powder, butter and cheese they brought along. There was no need to spend and the money used to be too precious to spend.
They would keep counting the days patiently waiting for the day to head home. Every lunch break and the evening nap would be filled with the reciting of how much they miss their home in subdued tone. After what looked like an eternity for them would finally come the day of completion of their turn. With Nu. 30/- in the pocket, the amount weighed crores for them. But before actually making home, they would spare a day for shopping. Buying the best gho and kira for his father and mother, some sweets for his nieces and nephews, he would spend only Nu. 10/-.
Going back took lesser time for them. Having missed their home and parents very much, the excitement to reach home kept them going almost running sometime. Once home, they would feast and celebrate safe home coming with home brewed wines in galore. The gifts would have been distributed and the remaining cash safely surrendered to his mother for hoarding in the ropotong (the bamboo stem made for the purpose). He is home safe and healthy.
He told himself he would never make it back and even if, he doesn’t want to. But after 45 years, he found himself traveling by the same road he has helped in construction. This time the jungles have gone and the towns have come up in the place he least expected. And he seems to acknowledge that Bhutan has really developed and the dreams of Bhutanese are becoming alive.
‘It is much better and faster traveling by the road and I think I am proud having made this possible by contributing in my small strength’, he told me and went to sleep leaning his head against the seat to wake up only when we reach Thimphu.
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