Gaviscon

I present you in a tray
Both life and purpose per se
The best I would say
It is a gay disposition
And Profusion in life
That finds purpose in your strife

Never paid attention to warnings
Instead left myself to fate
Crying and then praying
Laughing like a lover
Wishing it not to be over

Undefined life's purpose be
Unidentified life may be
Facts of life
Is warning for naive
Broken mirror is a sign
Will fade with time

And it goes... "the broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried best to be guarded
I am an open book instead
I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyes
That are looking for purpose
They are still looking for life..."

Let's prevent virus from taking its toll

A Second Chance at Life: Why Theda’s Story Needs Our Help

“Money isn’t that important, except when a lack of it stops you from being able to help a loved one who is suffering.”

— Jane-Ann Crowley, Canning Times

While reading the morning paper today, a story in the Canning Times deeply moved me. It was about 34-year-old Theda Myint, a broadcast journalist who is currently fighting a silent, exhausting battle against Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME)—commonly known as chronic fatigue syndrome.

Theda’s struggle began in 1999 when she contracted the Hong Kong flu (Influenza A / H3N2) while traveling in England. Today, her illness has severe daily consequences: basic human activities that many of us take for granted, like sitting up or simply speaking, leave her physically exhausted.

Despite the extreme toll on her health, this does not have to be the end of her story. Survivors around the world have overcome ME with the right care and support, and Theda can too—if we come together to help her.

How We Can Make a Difference

Medical expenses and ongoing treatments for ME are daunting:

• Current Monthly Cost: ~$1,000

• Estimated Long-Term Expenses: Up to $100,000

Her family and friends have rallied around her. Jane-Ann Crowley started a fundraising initiative that has raised a modest $10,000, but there is still a long way to go.

I’m sharing this on my page because I believe we can make a meaningful impact, even in small ways:

• Donate: Dropping just a dollar or two into her support account adds up quickly when done collectively.

• Spread the Word: Reach out to individuals, groups, or institutions that might be able to offer financial aid or medical support.

• Send Support: Join her Facebook community to keep her in your prayers, send positive energy, and let her know she isn't fighting alone.

We cannot let this illness take its toll on someone fighting so desperately for a second chance at life. Let’s join forces and support Theda today!

Sleepless nights and painful days...

Shadows Behind Closed Doors: Domestic Violence in Our Neighborhoods

“Alalla! Amaaa! Huunuuuu…”

I sit bolt upright in bed. It is one o'clock in the morning. I hold my breath, trying to decode the agonizing cries echoing through the darkness. It is the unmistakable sound of human pain under a whip—and the horrific, terrified screams of a child no older than five.

The cries are coming from the house right next to mine. One voice clearly belongs to a mother; the other to a young boy.

“Ama! Ala! Amamaahuuuuunu…”

Shattering glass and crashing porcelain accompany the ongoing abuse. I find myself torn between trying to go back to sleep and stepping outside to prevent violence against a woman and a child. In the end, I hesitate, staying within the quiet safety of my home.

The last time I tried to play the role of a responsible citizen in my previous neighborhood, it backfired completely. I was accused of having an affair with the woman being abused. The husband turned his anger on me, questioning my motives for stepping in.

Yet tonight’s fight isn’t between equal opponents, nor is it like any ordinary altercation. It is the all-too-familiar story: a drunk or possessive man beating the life out of his family. The mother and child continue to cry, carrying physical and psychological scars that will likely last a lifetime—especially for the child.

Having witnessed similar unpleasant scenes as a child myself, I constantly worry about when it will ever stop. So many children grow up exposed to domestic violence in its many brutal forms.

Through the Eyes of Children

A five-year-old girl in my neighborhood recently shared a story with me:

“Uncle, you know that Didi who works upstairs? She has marks all over her body—she has deep bruises on her waist,” she said. “She was whipped for a minor reason.”

I had already heard about the incident. A domestic worker who had lived and worked with that family for seventeen years was severely beaten simply because a curry didn't turn out well. I listened quietly as the little girl continued.

“We all make mistakes, but she made a small mistake and was punished so badly,” she concluded thoughtfully. “That uncle is worse than I thought. It is so bad of him to beat someone who cooks his food, looks after his baby, and cleans his house and clothes.”

I couldn't agree more. It wasn't fair.

Nor was it fair for the woman who was screaming for help when I lived in my previous apartment. She had run up and down the staircase crying out for assistance. Her husband had beaten her and stolen her mobile phone to prevent her from calling for help. Hearing her cries, I stepped out, and she begged me to call the police. I went inside and dialed 113.

“Hello, Police la?” “Yes, this is the police.” “There is a woman in my building who desperately needs help.” “Could you give me your name, address, and phone number, please?”

I diligently gave all the requested information. Fifteen minutes passed, and no one arrived. The woman pleaded with me to call again, terrified her husband would return to attack her. I pushed the call button a second time.

The second conversation started tense, but the officer explained why they hadn't dispatched a team immediately: they receive countless prank calls every day. After verifying my number again, he promised a patrol unit would arrive in five minutes.

The Cost of Intervening

While waiting outside for the police, I noticed a man walking toward the building. I asked if he had seen the police officers who were supposed to be responding to a call. He pointed toward a group of officers standing at a nearby junction.

“They are right there,” he said politely, looking genuinely curious. “Who called them?”

“I called them because the woman upstairs asked for help,” I replied. “She was crying and begging for assistance.”

He said nothing, looked at me silently for a moment, and walked away.

When the police approached, I went forward to introduce myself. One officer stayed to speak with me while the others headed upstairs. Once the officer was satisfied with my explanation, we went inside the apartment.

Inside, the husband was already building a defense, interrogating his bruised wife:

“Who is this guy who called the police? You need to tell me and the police right now—what do you have going on with him?”

To my shock, the husband was the very man I had spoken to on the street just minutes earlier.

Infuriated as I was, the police ignored his accusations, handcuffed him, and took him away. I was told he would be detained for a few days.

The Unbroken Cycle

The story of abuse continues across far too many households. In a primary school essay on happiness, a young student wrote:

“I am happy. But I am not happy when my father and mother fight.”

The statistics reflect this tragic reality. In Bhutan, reported cases of assault, battery, and related offenses rose from 440 cases in 2008 to 565 cases in 2009—representing the highest category among all recorded crimes.

Domestic violence isn't a private family matter; it is a community crisis. Until we address the silence, the stigma, and the systemic delays that keep victims trapped, the midnight cries of women and children will continue to echo through our walls.

Scarecrow

Shadows in the Dust: A Journey to Gomtu

The road was bumpy and choked with dust, and the truck was old. My wife and I struggled to keep ourselves upright in our seats as we traveled to a nearby village past Gomtu town, hoping to meet a prospective babysitter. A local boy accompanying us remarked that on roads like these, traveling on wheels takes almost as much time as going on foot. It took us over an hour to arrive.

The driver dropped us off at the end of the dirt road directly across from the village, leaving us to continue on foot. As we stood discussing the remaining trek, a local man approached to ask what brought us there. We learned from him that most of the young women from the village worked at a dolomite mining company just a few yards from where we stood. It brought temporary relief—we wouldn't have to make the long climb up to the village, which turned out to be much farther than it appeared.

The girl we were looking for had prior experience, having previously worked for two different families in Thimphu. When we finally spotted her, she was carrying a stack of seven bricks balanced on her head at a construction site. The air was thick with dolomite dust, the southern sun beat down relentlessly, and I couldn't help but worry about the risk of injury surrounding her.

We waited for her to return for her next load. Her friend, with whom we had been speaking, told her that we had come to offer her a new opportunity.

Her response was an absolute, flat no.

She refused to explain, insisting instead on picking up another stack of bricks. Her friends urged her to at least listen and consider the offer, but she wouldn't budge. She was earning eighty Ngultrums a day; we offered her significantly more, detailing the perks, rest days, and advance payments. She simply told us that she had no desire to work for anyone ever again—and particularly not anyone from Thimphu.

We ran out of persuasive words and better offers to change her mind. She refused to listen, repeating only that she would never return to Thimphu. Realizing it was useless, we decided to turn back.

The Unspoken Truth

In a nearby camp, we spoke with some of the local women who knew her story.

They told us that she had previously gone to Thimphu to work for a prominent family, staying for nine months. There, she was chronically sleep-deprived—forced to stay up late and rise early. She cleaned the house, cooked for the family, managed catering for archery matches and social gatherings, and washed clothes. Worse still, she was physically and verbally abused, and at times forced to eat food intended for the family's pet dogs—or so they were told. She eventually fled the house.

After spending a few months back home, she was sent out to work again out of economic necessity. Her father was a troubled burden to the family, and her mother was too ill to work. This time, there were grand promises: better pay and lighter duties. She was persuaded to give it a second chance.

That stay lasted less than four months. She was falsely accused of stealing, subjected to every form of abuse, denied phone calls to her brother, and withheld her pay. Once again, she ran away—vowing never to return.

Hearing what she had endured, we completely abandoned any thought of changing her mind. The local boy who brought us kept insisting that he would continue to persuade her on our behalf, but we firmly told him to leave her alone.

A Lingering Shadow

On our way back, we pondered her story. While part of us questioned whether such cruelty could be real—hoping it contained some degree of exaggeration—we couldn't dismiss it entirely.

The haunting possibility that it was all true weighed heavily on us. The thought of such spiteful, inhumane treatment hung in the air, floating among the dolomite dust all the way back home.