Sunny day and Sunday may not fall on the same day.

Rain, Rain, Go Away: Unpredictable Seasons and the Changing Rhythms of Bhutan

If Jigme had his way, he would gather his harvest beneath a bright, clear sky.

Every year, toward the end of September, Bhutan celebrates Thruebab (Blessed Rainy Day). On this sacred day, all natural water sources are believed to become purified, capable of cleansing accumulated bad karma. For generations, Thruebab also served as a practical milestone: it marked the official end of the monsoon and signaled the start of the autumn harvest.

This year, however, the monsoon refused to depart.

After September 23rd, rain continued to shower across the country straight through September and into late October. In Paro, farmers were left helpless as their cut paddy—spread across fields to dry for threshing—lay soaking in relentless rain. Following age-old traditions and seasonal certainties, farmers had cut their crops expecting the skies to clear after Thruebab. Instead, a brief day or two of sunshine gave way to continuous downpours, leaving farmers to witness heartbreaking post-harvest losses.

 

Waiting for Clear Skies

Down in Tsirang, Barsha wished the rain away during Dashain. She could not recall ever celebrating the festival under soggy, overcast skies. After waiting the entire year for Dashain, she longed for a warm, sunny day. Because of the persistent downpours, many of her family members and relatives had to postpone their travels, waiting for the weather to clear so they could gather and receive Tika from their elders and kin.

Neither Jigme nor Barsha fully understood why the rains lingered so long past their welcome.

Historically, Bhutan’s climate followed well-known rhythms:

• Northern Region: Sparse annual precipitation averaging around 40 millimeters, mostly as snow.

• Central Temperate Valleys: Yearly rainfall averaging roughly 1,000 millimeters.

• Southern Foothills: Subtropical downpours reaching up to 7,800 millimeters annually.

In Thimphu, winter months (December through February, stretching into March) brought a strong likelihood of snow, with light average rainfall around 20 millimeters a month. Rains would gradually build toward a peak of 220 millimeters in August, accumulating to an annual total of about 650 millimeters. Jigme’s harvest decisions and Barsha’s festive expectations were anchored in these predictable patterns passed down over generations.

Searching for New Certainties

In recent years, Bhutan’s climate patterns have subtly shifted. The lingering autumn rains stretching into late October—paired with increasingly uncertain winter snowfall in main Thimphu city—signal that the old references are changing.

This shift leaves us with profound questions for the future:

• What new benchmarks will farmers rely on to time their planting and harvesting?

• How will younger generations adjust as ancestral knowledge faces unpredictable weather?

• How prepared are we as a community to modernize post-harvest techniques and safeguard hard-earned yields against sudden climate shifts?

As the rain falls past its appointed hour, it reminds us that adapting to a changing climate isn't just a global debate—it is a deeply personal reality played out in the paddy fields and family homes of Bhutan.

IOU- my life

Saved by the River: A Memory of Yongba

Have you ever been carried away by the violent current of a river? I was—and there is one person to whom I owe my life, without whom I wouldn't be here to write these words today.

His parents named him Yongba. He accepted the name; I knew him by it, and above all, I cherished him as my dear friend.

He was given that name because he spoke with a lisp, saliva often pooling at the corners of his mouth. In his pockets, alongside marbles and random toys, he always kept a stash of roasted grain (tengma) to share. Fair-skinned, the friction of his shirt sleeve constantly wiping his mouth left his lips perpetually flushed pink. He was remarkably strong and protected us from bullies. He was exceptionally good at every game we played, competed with fierce integrity, and hated any form of cheating. He was, in every sense, a wonderful childhood companion.

Every morning, right after breakfast, we would meet to map out the day ahead. We played football, sneaked into movie halls, fished for crabs, swam in the river, and lay naked on sun-baked rocks while our clothes dried in the scorching heat. Yongba had an endless supply of adventurous plans, and I was always his willing accomplice.

Looking back, our friendship was a curious thing. I have no idea how we became so close. Our families didn't know each other. Yongba didn't go to school, and I never actually met his parents (though I occasionally heard his mother's voice calling out near his house). We lived kilometers apart, yet he was the dearest childhood friend I knew during those years with my parents.

The Feast by the River

I think of him often, but one summer morning in Phuentsholing stands out clearer than all the rest.

We met just like any other day, but Yongba had a picnic on his mind. He carefully instructed me on how to sneak cooking oil out of my mother's kitchen without being caught. His plan was simple and brilliant: spend the entire next day by the riverbank, catch fresh fish, and fry them up for a feast. We pooled our stolen oil while Yongba produced a small packet of salt and dried chillies wrapped in plastic, tucked safely inside his trouser pocket. Lunch was officially planned.

Whatever Yongba envisioned, he made happen. For an eight- or nine-year-old, his outdoorsmanship was extraordinary. He caught fish as easily as if he were picking them off a market stall. He handled crabs effortlessly, caught snakes by the neck, and let them coil around his arms, talking to them like playthings. To me, snakes were terrifying vessels of poison that could kill in seconds. To Yongba, they were harmless. He was fearless—my childhood hero.

With our supplies secured, we dashed toward the river from Kharbandi. I lived along the road leading to Phuentsholing's old hospital, while Yongba lived up in Kharbandi. We always met at his end of town—though looking back, it probably would have made more sense for him to come down to mine. But logic mattered little to us then.

As soon as we reached the riverbed, Yongba set to work. Within minutes, he had caught several fish and built a small fire. While our little chef began preparing the catch, I went to play in the shallow waters, carefully avoiding the deep pools where Yongba glided like a fish. He often coaxed me to join him in the deeper water, but I always refused. I feared deep water for no clear reason—perhaps, I used to think, I had been washed away by a river in a past life.

The Current

As the fish fried over the open flame, the mouth-watering aroma drifted across the riverbank on the summer breeze. Hungry and tempted by the smell, I turned toward the bank when Yongba called out to me.

In my haste, I lost my footing.

The deep end swallowed me instantly. I fought fiercely not to swallow water, but gulped it again and again. My body smashed into rocks, rolling violently against the riverbed. Sharp debris scraped across my back, and pebbles rattled against my head. The world went dark, and I squeezed my eyes shut as water choked my throat.

Desperate for something to cling to, my fingers caught the smooth edge of a submerged rock. I pushed myself up to catch a single, precious gasp of air before the churning current yanked me under again. The river carried me like a piece of drift wood. In total panic, my heart cried out for Yongba. My arms and legs grew numb with exhaustion, bruised and battered against the relentless monsoon current that was determined to sweep away everything in its path.

Through the roar of the water, I heard a voice screaming:

"Ashok! Ashok! Ashok!"

An Unspoken Farewell

I have few clear memories of what happened immediately after. We didn't meet much under adult supervision, and somehow, the trail of our friendship faded shortly after that day. To this day, I have no recollection of how I made it back home, or what happened to the fried fish sitting by the fire.

As I write these words, my heart overflows with deep gratitude. I wonder if Yongba ever thinks of me, or if he remembers the summer days we shared as boys—and the afternoon he gave me the strength and hope to survive the raging monsoon river.

Wherever you are today, my friend, I hope life has treated you well. I wish I could meet you once more, give you a bear hug, and thank you for saving my life.

Movie Muse

Local Reels, Global Echoes: Cinema, Nostalgia, and Belonging

When I first arrived in Perth, I used to wonder why Thinlay and Gopi were so eager to watch Bollywood movies when Australia offered such an endless variety of Hollywood and Western cinema. Today, I chuckle at the answers I’ve uncovered.

It comes down to resonance: it is far easier for us to connect with the sensibilities, humor, language, and emotional rhythm of South Asia. I can't pinpoint the exact moment I started watching Hindi cinema—the simplest truth is that I grew up with it. Indian culture permeated our daily lives. Occasionally, I try to resist its pull, only to fail the moment when a new Shah Rukh Khan release hits the screen.

Living far from home, every new Bollywood release in Australia becomes an irresistible temptation. Beyond the entertainment, it offers a fleeting, comforting bridge back to my roots. Though I have only visited a few major cities in India, cinema has made me feel as though I know the country and its people intimately.

Shared Horizons and the Power of Screen

Bhutan and India share one of the closest bilateral relationships in South Asia. Yet, our closeness extends far beyond geopolitical borders. Deep cultural influences, economic ties, shared history, and daily social interactions bring our peoples together in ways that maps alone cannot capture.

Bollywood is famously celebrated for its vibrant song-and-dance numbers, dramatic arcs, and expansive storytelling—elements that have strongly inspired the narrative style of Bhutanese cinema. At one point, there was chatter about branding our film industry with a title like "Sandalwood." A friend of mine even started a Facebook page named Bhutan Films, though most simply refer to it as the Bhutanese Film Industry (a rose by any other name, as they say).

Perhaps the industry hasn't reached the scale where a grand title is necessary—or perhaps those at the helm simply feel a formal label isn't the priority. But make no mistake: the Bhutanese film industry cannot and should not be overlooked. It is becoming a powerful cultural medium for future generations to connect with their identity. Whether we leave its naming to the youth or actively intervene to recognize its economic and social role, its impact is undeniable.

Growing Up Between Genres

I don’t recall taking my daughters to the cinema to watch Bhutanese films, yet they know the songs by heart. They love to sing, dance, and imitate their favorite actors.

It reminds me of my own childhood. Watching Hindi movies with my parents in the Norgay and Mig cinema halls was a rare, precious treat. Yet somehow, I managed to soak in almost every film. It wasn't until later in life, starting in the small Chhaya video hall in Jaigaon, that I began exploring Hollywood.

The contrast was striking. While Hollywood was visually spectacular, it was harder to connect with emotionally. Fully appreciating those films required understanding a vast web of Western cultural nuances. Bollywood, by contrast, was intuitive—even if its predictability sometimes bordered on formulaic. Hollywood presented a fascinating riddle: a lens into American culture, subtle humor, futuristic themes, and thought-provoking dilemmas. Still, even when a Western movie left me completely baffled about its ending, I watched on.

Up turn and Down turn

Lessons from Two Economies: How Australia and Bhutan Outpaced a Global Crisis

Why is Australia’s economy growing while so many other nations face a downturn? For Bhutan—a small nation nestled high in the Himalayas—this question offers a fascinating parallel rather than a million-dollar mystery.

According to data released by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, the Australian economy grew by 0.6% in the June quarter of 2009. During this period, only a handful of nations maintained positive growth alongside Australia, notably India, China, Indonesia, Poland, and South Korea. India’s GDP surged by an impressive 9.3% in the April–June quarter, while China reported a 7.9% annual growth clip in the second quarter. While much of the global economy struggled to climb out of negative territory, these resilient nations stood out.

Another economy that weathered the storm exceptionally well—yet remains largely overlooked in both good times and bad—is Bhutan. While Bhutan lacks the economic scale to single-handedly lift global markets or cushion external shocks, its domestic performance has been remarkable. Economic indicators from the Royal Monetary Authority of Bhutan recorded a staggering 21.4% GDP growth for 2007–08, driven largely by the expansion of clean hydropower production from its fast-flowing rivers.

The Power of Asian Trade Networks

Australia’s economic resilience stems significantly from its deep trade ties with China—the world’s fastest-growing major economy, with an insatiable demand for Australian iron ore and raw materials. China accounts for more than 17% of Australia’s total exports while supplying a similar share of its imported goods.

Historically, Australia’s primary trading partners were Great Britain and Europe. However, when Britain joined the European Economic Community in the 1970s, Australia lost key trade preferences. This shift forced the country to pivot toward the Asia-Pacific region, establishing market relationships closer to home—with China becoming a primary anchor.

Bhutan followed a similar regional strategy. Ever since opening its doors to the outside world in the early 1960s, Bhutan has maintained deep economic integration with India. Today, over 80% of Bhutan’s exports go to India, while nearly 70% of its imports originate there, driven primarily by bilateral energy cooperation and hydropower projects.

A Shared Secret to Resilience

Direct trade between Australia and Bhutan remains minimal; data from Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade ranks Bhutan 217th among Australia's trading partners.

It might take a stretch of the imagination to see a geographical resemblance between island-continent Australia and landlocked, mountainous Bhutan. Yet, both nations share a striking commonality in their economic strategies: both have thrived during global crises by anchoring their trade relationships to the economic giants of Asia.

By aligning their resource strengths with the growth engines of China and India, both Australia and Bhutan managed to navigate turbulent global waters and emerge on solid ground.

Home-Back Home

The Land of Opportunity: Tales from a Perth Construction Site

At 65 years old, Richard—an immigrant from South Africa—works on a five-story construction site in the northern suburbs of Perth. Alongside him are dozens of others from every corner of the globe, all seeking to earn a few extra dollars and build a good life.

Richard moved to Australia 35 years ago at the age of 25, searching for better prospects. Today, his hard labor earns him AUD $37 an hour, enabling a comfortable lifestyle—certainly a better one than he would have had back in South Africa.

“I have another four or five years left in me,” Richard says, his accent a subtle blend of South African cadence and Aussie warmth. “You can’t keep doing physical labor forever. It would have been easier if I were a teacher, or doing something that didn't demand so much physical strength.”

Although Richard is of Indian heritage, his South African upbringing and decades Down Under mean you quickly forget his roots when chatting with him. He speaks fluid, articulate English with careful intonation and word choices, and holds permanent residency in Western Australia.

When I asked if it was easy to settle here, he answered without hesitation: life was—and remains—significantly better in Australia. He’s right. Australia is a place where even someone without formal schooling can afford a 50-plus-inch plasma TV in their lounge room. Now, he plans to buy a home in Perth's northern suburbs to settle down permanently.

“It will probably cost me upwards of three hundred thousand dollars,” he remarks, gesturing toward the building we’re working on. “You know, the top floor of this complex will go for a million dollars. Prices drop as you go lower down.”

The project is an expansion of a luxury retirement community operated by RSL Care, situated adjacent to Edith Cowan University. The residents enjoy every comfort imaginable for their golden years: driving convertible BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes, with dedicated gardeners, cleaners, and fresh bread delivered every morning—living in what feels like an eternal holiday.

“The only way we're living like that is if we hit a multi-million-dollar jackpot!” a New Zealander shouts as a silver-haired resident pulls out in a bright green Lamborghini.

The crew erupts into laughter, throwing around Australia's favorite, versatile swear word—a word that somehow functions as every part of speech in a single sentence.

Mates, Meals, and New Beginnings

Among the crew is Brodie, a 32-year-old New Zealander who came across the Tasman Sea to earn Australian dollars. A professional chef for the past decade, Brodie previously ran restaurants and worked around the country. During earlier stints in Australia, he relied on recruitment agencies that took a heavy cut of his pay. This time, he bypassed the middlemen entirely by tapping into his personal network.

“I had restaurant gigs lined up,” Brodie explains, “but I called Frank [the supervisor], and he had an opening right away. Restaurant hours are brutal; construction hours are much better.”

Brodie is in Perth with his wife, while his two daughters remain back home in New Zealand. He sends a portion of his wages home while saving the rest to buy a house. Interestingly, his culinary skills haven't gone to waste on the job site.

Every Saturday, the workers pool five dollars each, and Frank chips in a bit extra for a Saturday morning barbecue. Brodie handles the shopping and turns $5 into a feast for his crew by 9:30 AM. Watching him work is a treat: he chops tomatoes and mushrooms with the effortless precision of a seasoned pro, drizzling olive oil across the hotplate before frying up thick cuts of bacon. Ten years in professional kitchens have taught him how to bring out flavor.

When smoko rolls around, the usually rowdy shed falls completely silent for fifteen minutes as everyone digs into their plates of barbecue, eggs, salads, and sausages. It’s quite the feast for five dollars.

Perspectives on Home

Construction workers in Australia can earn between fifty and sixty thousand dollars a year—a fair income that affords a few luxuries. Paul rides to work on a second-hand Harley-Davidson he bought for $37,000. Others prefer to spend their hard-earned cash on private parties, casinos, drinks, and late nights out.

Australia is undeniably a land of opportunity for those with practical skills and the willingness to leave their homeland behind. Because of this, immigrants and long-time settlers often look at you with total disbelief when you tell them you plan to return home rather than stay permanently.

I can understand their reaction. They arrived with the intention of putting down permanent roots and building a life with all the modern comforts. But for someone like me, it raises a simple question: What is the point of calling a place home if you never intend to return to it?