For my March post, I wanted to write a grand exposition titled Drukpanomics opining on the economic policies that Bhutan can use to become a mid-income nation by 2034 as aspired-for in her upcoming Longterm Perspective Plan.
Somewhere along the way, having procrastinated to an irredeemable extent, I realize that I am neither a Keynes nor an LKY.
Instead, I tell myself, as a highlander with a penchant for the unnecessary, let me write on something most insanely mundane – my almost-every-evening bike ride from Talamu, where I work, to Tshamshingkisa, where I stay with my eldest brother, his family, and mother-ji*.
On this particular night, the mid-lunar-month moon looms full over the clouds hanging above the Karma La pass.
Thither, the hanging valleys, filled by ancient fir trees, and their crests topped by the late March snow, calm and mysterious as they are, exude the auras of Baeyul – the sacred hidden lands described in Himalayan Buddhist mythologies said to have been blessed by Guru Rinpoche himself.
Hither, the gravel-packed farm road meanders into the distance, lit dimly by the bright electric light filtering through the thin night mist from the other side of the valley. The two streaks on the road where the wheels travel the most resemble two silvery wisps in the dim night landscape showing this lone wayfarer his desolate way home. I look around to check for any loitering boar or the occasional Himalayan Black Bear. Nothing exciting like that popping into view, I observe lamentably.
Instead, as a single droplet of sweat roll cooly over my forehead down onto the bicycle’s mid-frame, my thigh muscles aching for a break, Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus pops into my mind. I wonder if this is what good ol’ Sisyphus felt like – Sisyphus the mischievous mortal condemned for eternity to roll a boulder uphill only to see it roll downhill only to repeat this ordeal yet still. Unlike Sisyphus I am not condemned for eternity (I hope) and I don’t have to roll a literal boulder uphill. But this bike ride up to Tshamshingkisa every evening … is a bit of a Sisyphean ordeal. I shake my head with a broadening grin. Why, I think, this really is the best! Tomorrow morning, I get to glide over the rough farm road at 70 mph, eyes smarting in the harsh morning breeze, heart gleeful at the momentary flight – just me, the bike and the tricky gravel road.
For the umpteenth time, I take in a lungful of the evening air crisp with the early night cold. This time, I think out loud, I really can smell spring in the air.
Soon the cloudy juniper pollen dust will be floating around in the lazy spring air like some earthly star dusts. The primulas will bloom and populate the hillsides, their slender stems stooping gracefully under the weight of the refreshing morning dew, their petals painting the plains a pleasing purple. The dandelions and the rhododendrons are already out, I remember.
For the zillionth time this year, I smile a solitary smile in the wide landscape.
Thank goodness, I mutter to myself, I can now imagine Sisyphus a happy man.
*I do confess that some particularly poetic feelings were involved in thinking about writing this post. However, since I am a prose man, a prose it is I write.
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