The purpose was not defined! Yet it started from Thimphu until the Gelephu bus terminal. Everything was fresh and fine early in the
morning. The crowd was busy and rushing. All buses were getting ready to move
to their destiny. When it was 7:00 a.m., my mobile driver calmly pressed the accelerator hard, signalling we were ready to move. Soon the wheels started
rolling, and my journey started from the capital city, Thimphu.
The majority of the passengers were Nepali, maybe because our
destiny is to the south. And sadly, all were mothers of one or two—little cute babies in their arms, holding tight—and diligent fathers whose faces proved that they were sturdy. I was travelling with my classmate, Phuntsho Wangdi.
A Nepali grandfather sold Churkam (dried cheese) with his admired Dzongkha dialect mixed with
humour, and our journey was made worthwhile with Churkam in everyone’s mouth.
Soon, with a sharp horn near the Lungtenphu army camp, we reached Semtokha.
From there, it was up – to the chilly, serene scene of Dochula. A lady passenger requested the driver to play music. She was
rejected until Dochula. Everything was beautiful and quiet. The rising
seat and tip of the chorten (stupa) and
monastery were overwhelming. The awesomeness soon disappeared to the tune of Sem gawi Ngyem (happy day of beautiful
sun) by Jangchub Choden and Tshering Dorji. We were heading down then.
Everyone was quiet. The road was snaky through the dense, huge, grand trees with long and beautiful mosses decorating them. The wind was
chilly. And I had fallen asleep. The music was so sharp, and it was a Nepali song
when I was awakened at Thinleygang.
A lady was beside the road with cucumbers and maize corn. The driver stopped to ask the price of cucumber while I bought maize corn and enjoyed its
allure between my teeth until Wangdue.
Muddy and noisy was the Wangdue town. There were trucks
moving one after another. The ongoing Punatshachu Hydropower Project seemed to keep the town busy. Splashing muddy water to the roadside, a few cameras flashed to the burnt Dzong (fortress). All the conversations were sympathetic. They murmured to each other about the sympathy felt for the helpless, headless Dzong, the lack of funds for its reconstruction, and the emotional impact of the continuing smoke rising from the ruins. Everyone
felt sorry for the unfortunate misery.
A giant jerk and bumpy ride made our way along hydropower
construction. Many were amazed to see big holes dug on the difficult rocky
terrain. They were counting the holes on their fingertips until the motel where
we had lunch. With chicken curry and rice, Bhutan has developed, was their
conclusion with their counts of the number of tunnels on their fingers.
With full tummies, we continued our journey along the turbid
river. The sight of huge machinery and grouted mountains continues until we
cross the river through a beautifully designed bridge. The breeze from the dashing river was cool and
fresh.
The song girl, you are
my angel, frenzied the curves to Tsirang
Dzongkhag. Up through the green
chirpine with a dark trunk and fearing hills, negotiating all those curves, we
were greeted profoundly – welcome to Tsirang
Dzongkhang on a flamboyant board with a red background.
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| image from google~ |
Through the sloping valleys and bungalows, little goats
craving to stand for the green fresh bunch of grass, bulbuls singing and dancing
to the tune and rhythm of the wind, and the sun shining to wedge its rays on my forehead, we
reached Damphu town. An angelic look
with a tika on their forehead,
ostensibly smiling, heart throbbing and greeting with 'Dzongkha' in the Nepali dialect, I was overwhelmed by the courtesy and
mannerism of the Damphu shopkeeper.
Sloping down through thick and foggy weather, negotiating
the bumpy road, we were finally at the deserted Sarpang checkpost. I was taken back to Garage Town at S/Jongkhar.
I wasn’t sure how far Gelephu is. My
friend explicated to me the names of the passing places. The vegetation starting from the Tsirang valley until the Sarpang checkpost is similar to my village.
Students with ash-coloured dresses, lean umbrellas, shops with
no guarantee of when to collapse, and barbers tackling their scissors through the
rough hair of Nepali-looking men best
decorated the so-called Sarpang Bazaar.
A simple Sharchokpa girl
standing with a sweet smile to travellers, a Nepali Kanchi with goats and cows playing in fresh dew rain drops, and the future airport waving its ring coloured with blue and white strips made our journey
gratifying to reach our destiny.
The road from Sarpang
to Gelephu is the least fortunate. Small
streams defined their ways to make it bumpier, and it was remarkable when we
were tuned to the rhythm of Ata Youngba with
every thrust.
Little not far from among the huge trees, the raising tip of
the yellow building, few taxis, a sharp turn to the round concreted blacktopped space, and the thrice-hard sound of the accelerator being pressed hard connoted that finally we
were at destiny.
The crowd was again busy. And I was finally on the sofa. Gelephu radiates intense heat.
