The last bell no one heard: A quiet death of a village school

Twenty-three years ago, I was nineteen years old, fresh out of school myself, and terrified. In 2003, before you could undergo a bachelor's degree in teaching, there was this practice of sending aspiring teachers to schools all over Bhutan. Apprentice teacher, they called us. For a kid who grew up in a city, Korphu in Trongsa might as well have been the edge of the earth. I remember the bus ride, how the road kept getting narrower and narrower until I wondered if we'd simply run out of road and have to walk the rest of the way. 

Korphu village as seen from Nabji

The road did run out. From , Reotala, it was walk for an entire day to reach Korphu Primary School. 

Those first few weeks, I survived on noodles and homesickness. The school was modest, a few buildings huddled against the hillside, with the kind of quiet that makes city ears ring. Slowly, the children pulled me out of myself. They were shy at first, peeking at me from behind doorframes, giggling when I tried to pronounce their names wrong. By the end of my first month, they had me playing football/volleyball and I'd stopped caring about the mud.

The Academic Block 

What I remember most clearly now, standing in these ruins, are the Lhotsham students. They came from Reetiand other southern villages, places whose names I cannot remember now, all part of Sarpang Dzongkhag. To attend school at Korphu, they built small huts nearby. Tiny shelters really, just enough to keep the rain off. Every morning, they'd walk to class with their books wrapped in plastic to protect them from the dew. I think about that now, how they had to build their own homes just to get an education. I feel ashamed of the times I complained about the cold walk from my home to the classroom.

Classrooms 

The school drew students from nearby Nabji village too. You should see the paddy fields there, terraced like steps leading to heaven, impossibly green when the rice is young. I used to stand on the school grounds and look across at Nabji. 

And then there was my friend.

I am sorry to mention this, but I lost someone that year. A fellow teacher, with a laugh that could fill the entire staff room. Heart issues, they said. One morning he was there, and the next, he wasn't. In a place as remote as Korphu, the news travelled slowly and hit hard. We held a small prayer for him under that flagpole, the same flagpole that still stands today. I remember thinking how unfair it was, how the mountains just kept being beautiful while we mourned a friend.

My dwelling and classrooms 

Twenty-three years later, I got a chance opportunity to visit this place for a second time. I hadn't planned it. Sometimes life pulls you back to places you thought you'd left behind forever. The road is better now, smoother, and the drive didn't feel as long. 

The classrooms where I once stood trembling before thirty pairs of watchful eyes are now cow sheds, essentially. I don't know what makes a school die. Maybe it's the same thing that makes a village fade, families moving to towns, children born in hospitals instead of homes, progress that doesn't look back. The enrollment dropped by the years, like water seeping through cracked clay. One year, twenty students. The next, twelve. Then four. Then none.

Nabji in the background

The last bell must have rung so quietly. No one was there to hear it. I heard of the closure when I was studying for another degree. 

But standing there, in the ruins of my past, I didn’t  just feel sadness. I felt a strange gratitude. This aboandoned place still holds everything I carry forward, the discipline of that flagpole, the faith of those prayers, the friends who are now scattered across the world but still line up in my memory, waiting for a whistle that never comes.

I think of the Lhotsham students and their little huts. I think of Nabji's paddy fields, still green as ever, unconcerned with the fate of a small school. I think of my friend, whose laugh I can still hear when the wind is right.

I am saddened by the fate of Korphu Primary School. 

Note: Written in grattitude for those who remember Korphu Primary School, for the Lhotsham children who built their homes, for the farmers of Nabji who still bend over those terraced fields, for a friend who left too soon, and for every apprentice teacher who found themselves far from home and somehow, impossibly, found themselves later, anyway.

From Official Convoys to Everyday Driveways: Opening Up EVs to Every Bhutanese

I spent some-time this morning gazing out the window taking in the view of the Dzong, cup of coffee in hand, watching the steady stream of traffic wind along the Chubachu-Pamtsho highway. Smooth, silent, high-end electric vehicles glided past. They looked right at home against our forested slopes-a clean, modern embodiment of Gross National Happiness and our identity as the world’s only carbon-negative nation.

Then, my neighbor drove by in his aging Maruti Alto. Its engine spitting a tiny, defiant cloud of exhaust. He didn't choose that noisy, fuel-chugging hatchback because he dislikes our forests or ignores our conservation values. He bought it because, as an ordinary civil servant with two school-aged children, it was the only wheels his budget could afford.

In Bhutan, owning a car has always felt like a luxury. Years ago, saving up for a modest secondhand Indian SUV felt like scaling a mountain. Today, with rising living costs, high interest rates, and import dynamics, owning any car is harder than ever. Yet, the paradox bites deepest when an average Bhutanese decides to own an EV.

On paper, our policy is a dream. The government has slashed customs duties, green taxes, and sales taxes on battery electric vehicles to nearly zero. In theory, an EV should be the obvious choice. In reality, step into any EV showroom in Thimphu, and the price tag on a basic EV will instantly freeze your intentions.

Why does an EV remain painfully out of reach compared to a conventional internal combustion engine (ICE) car?

Image Courtesy: AI generated 

The ironies are thick enough to cut with a traditional patang. We generate surplus, clean, cheap hydroelectric energy from our own rivers, yet we export millions of Ngultrums every month to import fossil fuels for our roads. We ask our citizens to champion conservation, yet the financial reward for choosing a green vehicle remains reserved for high-earners, pool vehicle fleets, and government officials.

It is time for green mobility in Bhutan to step out of official convoys and park in the driveway of the average home.

Achieving this requires looking beyond luxury EV rollouts. We need tailored credit lines with low interest rates dedicated to everyday buyers, direct partnerships with manufacturers producing practical, small-budget EVs, and an expanded fast-charging network that extends deep into our rural gewogs so a family can comfortably visit their ancestral home without the range anxiety.

Protecting our environment shouldn't feel like an expensive privilege meant for a select few. The ordinary Bhutanese driver doesn't lack the national pride or the environmental consciousness to drive clean, they simply need an electric car that costs less than a lifetime of hard-earned savings.

The Day We Conquered Thimphu’s "Forehead Trail"

The Motley Crue 

It started as an ad hoc, spontaneous plan for July 5th. No months of intense training, no grand strategy, just a shared impulse to tackle what is reputedly Thimphu’s longest and most grueling day hike. Our fellowship consisted of six brave souls, a motley crew blending a few colleagues from the office with some companions from the outside.

Right from the trailhead, a clear, humbling division of expertise emerged. The gentlemen from outside, alongside one of my office colleagues, moved with the effortless grace of professional hikers. They possessed the rhythmic stride, the steady breathing, and the seasoned stamina of people who call the mountains home.

Then, there was the rest of us. Myself, Ugyen, and Pelden formed the self-proclaimed "Almost Hikers" club. To call us amateurs would have been generous; we were weekend warriors fueled entirely by optimism, snacks, and a stubborn refusal to turn back.

The gravity of what we had signed up for hit us almost immediately. The trail didn't gently wind its way up the mountain; it rose like a wall. In local trekking parlance, it was a trail ‘on our foreheads-a literal, relentless, near-vertical climb where your knees practically meet your chin with every step.

Ugyen 

As we paused to catch our breath for the hundredth time, hearts hammering against our ribs, Ugyen looked up at the endless incline, wiped the sweat from his brow, and jokingly exclaimed:

"These hikes are for people below 40, not meant for people like you and me.” Ugyen and I were the above 40’s duo in the group. 

Gyenyen Lhatsho 

The laughter that followed gave us just enough oxygen to keep our legs moving. We weren't just fighting the altitude; we were fighting the sheer angle of the earth. Pelden and I could only nod in breathless agreement as the professionals smoothly cruised ahead, kindly waiting for us "almost-hikers" to regroup and reclaim our dignity.

But the thing about the steep, unforgiving trails of Bhutan is that they always lead to somewhere sacred. The agony of the ascent slowly dissolved as the tree line changed, the air thinned, and the landscape opened up into something profoundly mystical.

Sleeping Megatron 

There, cradled silently by the rugged peaks at a breathtaking 2,000 meters above Dechenphug, was the Ap Gyenyen Lhatsho.

Seeing that revered, sacred lake sitting in serene isolation made every agonising step, every burning muscle, and Ugyen’s hilarious age-related complaints instantly vanish. The peace that enveloped the lake was a stark contrast to our noisy, breathless climb. We stood at the edge of the water, completely humbled, not just by the physical height we had reached, but by the spiritual majesty of the place. We offered our silent prayers, took in the crisp mountain air, and realised that we had actually made it.

We conquered the mountain, laughed through the pain, and forged a bond that only a brutal, beautiful trail can create. Check out this amazing video of our hike, captured by fellow hiker Lopen Tshering Penjor (Paro College of Education)!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mmi_whPfVA

A Legacy Etched in Our Foundation: A Farewell to Our Presidents

There are moments in the history of an institution that give us pause moments where we look back and realize we are standing on the shoulders of giants. This month, the Royal University of Bhutan faces one of its most profound transitions. Five of our distinguished Presidents are completing their terms and stepping into a well deserved retirement.

For more than two decades, these remarkable leaders have not just occupied offices; they have built the very fabric of our university.

To serve an institution for over twenty years requires more than just professional dedication-it requires a deep, abiding love for education and for the future of Bhutan. When they first stepped into their roles, our university was in its formative chapters. Through their vision, resilience, and unwavering commitment, they guided us through periods of immense growth, transformation, and modernisation.

Because of them academic excellence became our benchmark, our campuses expanded, fostering vibrant communities of learning and generations of Bhutanese youth walked through our doors and left as capable, compassionate leaders ready to serve the Tsa-Wa-Sum.

As an employee who has witnessed the daily operational grit, the quiet wisdom behind major decisions, and the genuine care they held for both staff and students, I know their departure leaves an undeniable void. You cannot easily replace two decades of institutional memory, mentorship, and steady leadership. The Royal University of Bhutan is deeply in loss of the enormous daily contributions they made, but we are infinitely richer for having had them at the helm.

"The true measure of a leader is not just what they achieve, but what they inspire others to achieve."

To our five retiring Presidents, Kadrinchey la. Thank you for your tireless service, for navigating the complexities of higher education with such grace, and for always keeping the welfare of this university close to your hearts. You have been our anchors, our guides, and our inspiration.

As you turn this page and begin this next beautiful chapter of your lives, please know that your legacy is securely woven into every classroom, every graduation ceremony, and every success story this university will ever celebrate. We will work hard to protect and grow the incredible foundation you have left behind.

Thank you for your service, and may the Triple Gem bless you with good health, peace, and endless happiness in your retirement.

Spoiled to perfection by making mistakes

In a world obsessed with flawless execution, it’s easy to look at blunders and think, I’ve ruined everything.

If milk sits out and ferments, we don't throw it away, it becomes yoghurt, which is more valuable than milk. If it ages and changes even further, it turns into cheese, which is worth more than both. When grape juice sours and ferments, it transforms into wine, a premium product prized around the world.

In nature, spoiling is just the first step toward becoming something premium. Why should it be any different for you and I? We are not broken because we made mistakes. Mistakes are simply the raw experiences that add layers, depth, and value to who we are. In fact, some of humanity’s greatest milestones were born out of pure, unadulterated blunders.

I put this whole write-up in AI and asked to generate an image in the Bhutanese setting.
This came out looking pretty darn good. What do you think?

Christopher Columbus made a massive math error while calculating the Earth's circumference. He didn't find the trade route to Asia he was looking for, instead his mistake led him to the Americas. 

Alexander Fleming left a petri dish uncovered in a cluttered sink before going on vacation. He returned to find a ruined, moldy experiment. That ruined mold? It was Penicillin, the world’s first life saving antibiotic.

If these history defining moments came from people messing up, why are we being so hard on ourselves for one’s own missteps? We’ve been fed the old cliché our entire lives: "Practice makes perfect." But honestly? That’s not quite right. If you practice the wrong thing perfectly over and over again, you just become an expert at doing it wrong. It isn't practice that makes perfect. It is the mistakes we learn from that make perfect. 

Mistakes do not define worth, they refine it. You are not bad or ruined because things didn't go according to plan. You are just in the middle of your own alchemy.

Like the wine, the yoghurt, and the cheese, you are becoming more complex, more resilient, and far more valuable than you were when you started. Stand up, keep walking, and let your mistakes bring out the absolute best in you.

I don't have a certification in life coaching, and I’m not here to give you a 10 step plan for your relationships. I’m just a working professional sharing real stories from the trenches of middle age. I’ve learned the hard way so you don’t have to. So, let's get real,  what’s a recent mistake you made that actually turned out to be a priceless lesson?

The Heavy Burden of a Digital Shadow

In an era where education is supposedly at our fingertips, our primary school children are performing a daily physical feat that would strain most adults. It is a baffling contradiction: our Telegram groups buzz with 24/7 activity-PDFs of textbooks, verbal dictations of assignments, and sudden instructions to 'print this page', yet the physical backpack remains a heavy relic of an obsolete era.

Why are we forcing young, developing spines to lug around massive, multi-pound books when the actual learning is being funneled through a classroom screen? (I am not sure every classroom has one) We’ve reached a point where textbooks are treated as expensive paperweights carried for the 'just in case' scenario but rarely opened for anything more than a few reference question. This isn't just a failure of logistics; it’s a physical toll on our kids that makes no pedagogical sense.

It’s time to stop the ‘confusion by design’ that many parents feel. If the dynamic of the classroom has shifted to the digital cloud, the physical burden must shift too. Wearing out a child’s body is not a prerequisite for filling their mind. We need to demand a streamlined approach where the weight of a child's bag matches the weight of the actual physical resources used, not a redundant pile of ‘just in case’ paper that serves only to fatigue the very students we are trying to inspire.

If the instruction is digital, the baggage should be minimal. There is no academic merit in physical exhaustion. It is a fascinating pedagogical choice to prepare young minds for the 21st century by giving their backs a grueling workout from the 19th. 

Here's a research some brilliant teachers conducted on the very thing I made the update about https://journal.pce.edu.bt/index.php/rabsel/article/view/177/89

Hope is Not a Retirement Plan

The 4 PM light stretches across my desk, illuminating the thin layer of dust on my laptop. In most offices, this is the golden hour, but lately, it feels more like a ticking clock.

I am a mid career professional, and like some of my peers, I am haunted by a single, nagging question: To what end? For a long time, the script was simple. You study hard, land a stable job (ideally in the civil service), and work your way up. The reward was a respectable life and a pension that would carry you through your sunset years in your village or a modest home in the capital.

But the math isn't adding up anymore. With national inflation ever increasing and food prices climbing even higher, the stable salary that felt like a milestone five years ago now feels like a leaky boat. We are running faster just to stay in the same place.

The purchasing power of the Ngultrum has eroded significantly. What Nu. 100 bought five years ago now requires nearly Nu. 200. When I look at my NPPF statement, I don't see a relaxed retirement; I see a survival fund that might last a few years, if I'm lucky.

May be or may be not, perhaps this is the realisation that has triggered a quiet exodus. You see it in the empty desks of offices who have suddenly moved to Australia, or the hushed conversations in the canteen about income generating activities.

The dilemma is paralyzing:I have a decade of expertise, seniority, and a predictable routine but leaving feels like jumping off a cliff without a parachute. If I stay, will my pension even buy a bag of rice in 2040? 

An AI generated image of myself

We are a generation caught between the traditional safety net of family where children were our retirement plan and a modern economy that demands individual financial independence. The traditional structure is thinning as the younger generation moves away, leaving the likes of me to realise that hope is not a financial strategy.

So, what is the way forward? For many of us, it’s no longer about choosing between the office and the hustle, it’s about the bridge between them.

After 5 PM as I pack my bag and head home through the Thimphu traffic, I realize I’m not alone in this uncertainty. I am sure every second car carries a professional wondering if they should turn their hobby into a business or their weekend into a side husltle.

We aren't just working for a paycheck anymore; we are working to outrun an invisible thief called inflation. It’s a heavy realisation, but perhaps it’s the wake up call we need to stop drifting and start building not just for the end of our careers, but for the life that comes after.

Are you also staring at your pension statement and wondering, is this it?

Four Seasons in a Single Day: My Visit to Norbuling Rigter College

There is a particular kind of energy that hums through the air of a college campus. Recently, I found myself walking through the gates of Norbuling Rigter College, and I was immediately swept up in that unmistakable academic rhythm.

As I navigated the busy corridors, the college felt like a living, breathing organism. In the courtyards, clusters of students were huddled over notes, their voices low as they quizzed one another. It wasn't just the students, though; the faculty were right there in the thick of it. I watched professors standing, engaged in earnest conversations with students, offering last minute clarifications or perhaps just a few words of much needed encouragement.

I soon learned the reason for the heightened intensity: the entire student body was in the middle of a grueling week of long testing period. Every corner of the campus seemed dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, yet despite the pressure, there was a warmth to the interactions that felt deeply communal.

If the academic atmosphere was consistent, the weather was anything but surreal. One faculty member noticed me glancing at the sky and chuckled. "You get to see all four seasons here at this time of year," she joked.

She wasn’t exaggerating. The morning had begun with a deceptive, brilliant sunshine that made the college gardens pop with color. Spring was in full display here, with flowers blooming in vibrant clusters, their petals stretching toward the light. But as the hours ticked by, the sky began its transformation. By midday, heavy clouds rolled in, swallowing the sun and turning the landscape a moody grey. Then came the wind, a sharp, biting gust that whistled through the mountain passes. I looked up toward the surrounding peaks and saw a sight that felt like a different world entirely, the mountain tops were being blanketed in fresh, white snow.

By the time evening approached, the fourth season had arrived. The air turned brittle and cold, mimicking the depths of winter. It was a surreal contrast standing near a garden of spring blossoms while watching a snowstorm dance across the ridges above us.

I felt a deep respect for the students and teachers at Norbuling Rigter College. To study and work in a place where nature is so raw and ever changing must require a certain kind of resilience. Whether it was the heat of the morning sun or the winter chill of the evening, the work inside never faltered.

NRC is a place where the seasons might change four times in a day, but the dedication to excellence remains constant.

Fairness Lost, Brains Flown

In many an office, getting ahead often has little to do with how hard you work. Instead, promotions and good postings go to those who have the right connections-friends, family members, etc. A talented and honest employee can do everything right, but still watch a less capable person move up just because they know someone important. This kind of favoritism breaks a person’s spirit. After a while, the best workers realize that no matter how much effort they put in, they will never get a fair chance. So they start looking for a way out.

On top of favoritism, there is also graft and endless paperwork. In many offices, even simple tasks like clearing a file or getting a signature can take months. The only way to speed things up is…you name it! 

For an honest person, this is very frustrating. You either pay unfairly, or you wait forever while your work gets stuck. Good ideas and honest efforts get buried under rules that don’t make sense. Day after day, this tiredness builds up, and working hard feels useless.

Image Courtesy: AI Generated 

Because of all this, many skilled and honest people decide to leave the country. They go to places where hard work is rewarded, where promotions are fair, and where you don’t need to praise anyone to get your job done. Once they leave, their new country benefits from their skills. But their home country loses them forever. This  brain drain will keep happening as long as offices stay unfair, slow, and corrupt. The saddest part is that the people who want to serve their own nation are often the ones forced to leave.

Take the recent resignation of a young neurosurgeon. He didn't leave because he lacked skill or passion. He left because he saw patient safety and administrative decisions on the loose. 

https://kuenselonline.com/news/jdwnrh-neurosurgeon-resigns-over-patient-safety-concerns

That is not an exaggeration. Speaking the truth is treated like a crime, while those who are bent, you know it... The neurosurgeon’s resignation is not an isolated event. It is just one example of how good, honest people are pushed out every single day.

The 10-Minute Lie: A Commuter's Tale of Narrow Dividers, New Drivers, and the Daily Grind...

My day starts simply enough. The school bags are packed, the kids are strapped in, and the goal is simple: drop them off, get to the office, and start the workday. In a perfect Thimphu city situation, this should take about ten minutes. I know because I've done the math. I've clocked it on a quiet usual morning. Ten minutes. That's the lie I tell myself every weekday as I turn the ignition.

The reality, of course, is a 25-to-30-minute odyssey that tests the very fabric of my sanity.

The first act of our daily drama begins near the school. This is where I encounter them, a brand new car (with a I-have-just-learned-to-drive ) driver. You can spot them metres away. Their knuckles are white on the steering wheel, their faces a mask of intense concentration usually reserved for bomb disposal.

They approach a simple, gentle right-hand turn as if it's a calculus problem. The indicator goes on (thank you for that), but instead of turning, they stop. Completely. 

In the middle of the road. What follows is a beautiful thing, a snaking line of traffic materializing behind me like an accordion being slowly stretched. Horns blare in a futile attempt to break the spell. I watch in my rearview mirror as the line grows, a metal serpent of frustration, all because the sacred art of the rolling stop has been lost to a generation. (No pun intended la!)

We finally untangle ourselves and inch forward, only to be greeted by our next obstacle: the narrow divider. Some urban planner, in a stroke of geniusness decided that the best way to "ease" traffic flow was to squeeze two lanes of cars into one, using a concrete barrier that feels like it was designed by someone who has never actually driven a car. 

AI Generated 

What was meant to be a solution has become a daily chokehold, forcing every car to merge in a desperate, every-man-for-himself scrum. My kids have learned new words during this merge.

If the divider is the chronic condition, then the storm drains are the acute emergency. Lately, it seems like every small road in the city has been deemed unworthy of its asphalt. Cones appear overnight, herding us into single-file chaos. Diggers sit idle in giant holes, like metal dinosaurs dozing on the job. It's infrastructure week, every week, and my commute is the unwilling host. The ten-minute route is now a frustrating course through a municipal works project.

Through all of this, the men in blue are there, bless them. The traffic police stand in the middle of this madness, waving their hands, blowing their whistles, trying to impose order on chaos. They are the unsung heroes, the conductors of this insane orchestra. They do their bit.

But their biggest challenge? Our "all-knowing" drivers.

These are the kings and queens of the road. Encased in their steel and glass chariots, they feel invincible. A painted line is merely a suggestion. They weave through the snaking line of patient cars, treating the emergency lane as their personal express lane. They cut across lanes of traffic at the last second to make an exit, blissfully unaware (or uncaring) of the chain-reaction braking they just caused. They are protected by their bumpers and their anonymity, and they wield their vehicles like weapons of mass impatience.

So, as I finally pull into the office parking lot, 25 minutes after I should have, I sit for a moment. The car is quiet. The kids are at school. The storm drains are still being dug. The dividers are still narrow. And a fresh batch of newly licensed drivers is probably taking a rolling stop right now.

And I think to myself: We need to change how we hand out the keys to this kingdom. A written test and a quick loop around the block isn't enough. We need stricter tests, tougher exams, and perhaps a mandatory course on the simple physics of a turn signal and the profound social contract of the merge. Because a commute shouldn't feel like an endurance sport. It should just be a way to get from home to the office in ten minutes. 

With all due respect, only ten minutes la...