People Aren't Strange, When You're A Stranger

by Rohini Bhattacharjee (India)

Making a local connection Bhutan

As I look through the window of a bakery, I hear an old man mumble words our way. He stands at the corner of the store, on an elevated platform next to a young boy. I try to decipher his drunken slur of words but then see him gesturing for us to join him. I’m wary, but it’s our last day in Bhutan and my veins are pumped with adrenaline and the desire to squeeze more experiences out of the last leg of this trip in Paro. We approach him. “This boy is a musician, and a mighty good one! Aren’t you boy?” He looks about 18 years of age. He fixes his glasses and blushes at the old man’s remark. He nods. My brother and I flash excited smiles and ask him if he’d like to sing us a little something. He nods another yes, enthusiastically this time. The next few minutes consist of us looking on in wonder as this lovely young man sings his heart out −a Bhutanese love-song, we learn later. He explains to us the words of this tune −the longing of a lover, the desire for company. He goes by the name of T Luke and studies agricultural sciences at a private university in Punakha. As my brother chats on with Luke, who happens to be 24 and not 18, I turn my attention to the old man looking on with a wide smile. “Why worry?” he says to me “there should be laughter after the pain.” “There should be sunshine after the rain” we recite in unison. I smile “Dire Straits?” “I’m sorry, I had a few pints of beer, please don’t think of me as a bad man. I’m 50 and drunk, but I’m also happy and living.” We talk about The Eagles, Dire Straits, Jethro Tull; soon we’re talking all kinds of music and grinning cheek to cheek. He goes on to recite a few lines to a bunch of his favorite songs yet again. Somehow, his betel stained and half broken teethed grin is comforting, contagious, and very nostalgic. The corners of his eyes are wrinkly; a trait of people who smile too much, I tell myself. Luke says he needs to get going. Before taking leave, he reveals that the old man and him are strangers too. They stumbled upon each other just like we did upon him. A happy string of events. “Take him to Bombay with you! Take him! Make him as big as he deserves to be!” says the old man as he pulls Luke by his arm and locks it into my brother’s. We laugh and say our goodbyes. We walk down the local market streets recollecting moments from our 9-day-long stay in different parts of the country. We laugh a little, sigh occasionally, but over and above we’re brimming with gratitude. We stop abruptly every once in a while, as Tshering bumps into friends and acquaintances and stops for quick hellos and introductions −a monk and his friend feasting on roadside snacks, a traffic policeman, a national level football player out on a shopping spree with his partner. Tshering was the designated driver for the entirety our stay in Bhutan, but at some point, his position upgraded to that of a dear friend. We follow him into the first floor of a broken-down building and walk into a dimly lit room with 2 pool tables. Both occupied. We walk out and into another room of a similar build. A bunch of people scurry away from one of the tables and allow the three of us to take over. One of them makes conversation with us and bursts into Bollywood tunes when he learns we’re from India. After a minute or two, I find myself joining in too. Amidst a losing game and a chorus of Bollywood tunes echoing in the sparsely populated room, our night comes to an end. On our drive back to the resort, Tshering and I laugh over our shared dislike of the smell of “theplas” and “dhoklas” and he tells us he aspires to get a German Sheppard sometime soon. Home doesn’t feel too foreign from this land after all.