When words stop, music speaks. And that is how it is for me when I head home after every working day. Every now and then, I take a breather and replay the clip of my daily life and this is what I see.

The mornings are a series of rush hours – getting up about half an hour later than the set alarm, breakfast for my daughter and her pet.. the hot steaming cup of morning tea scalding my throat as I gulp it down and then snaking through the traffic on the expressway to the dusty town until we reach her school almost five to ten minutes late always as I creep through the sparse crowd to drop her bag while my girl meekly joins the last of her assembly line with slumped shoulders. The pairs of eyes of the teachers, I am pretty sure, meets the embarrassed, invisible, blinking eyes around my head.

**The Fence is symbolic in my life for many reasons and in many ways and found its way to be a muse this lunch break. I love writing poems (although the frequency at which I pen them undermines that feeling) for the reason that poems are subject to individual interpretation and none need ever know the source from where they sprang forth and therefore, one may never feel subjected to exposure and depletion. The other two poems were written years ago but I am re-posting here for your reading pleasure, that is, considering you are the one of those rare breeds who can endure attempts at raw poetry until its last word.

The Fence
Perhaps built to separate
The fence..
Unheeded its purpose
For the fence that stands still
Bore silent witness
To trials and tribulations
And the delights..
Of innocence and wonder
And growth
Of two young souls


The article below was written for my maiden column for Business Bhutan, published in yesterday's issue.

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First, it was the freedom of speech – to opinionate freely in any public forum or media. Now, the issue seems to have elongated into the principle of net neutrality. The whole world is debating on this issue but here in Bhutan, as in almost all other cases, perhaps this too will arrive at the pace of a sloth. By the time BICMA takes rebirth and open its eyes, this issue would be served up to them on a plate. It is just a matter of time really.

Have you ever had moment when you look at somebody furiously raging at you and all you do is mute your giggle because you think the person looks so funny in anger?

Well, I was trying to combat my grogginess from a drink, OK maybe two that I treated myself for a long day yesterday and in barges a furious lady, almost lunging at me this morning. She goes on and on about how loyal to the service she has been and how betrayed she is by our lapses. I open my mouth to explain that there are no actual lapses that she mistakenly believes so but all she lets me do is allow my lips to firm an O as she goes on and about.

I have a handful of siblings none of whom resemble each other, not even our parents, almost as if we are all genetic islands. Anyone who sees us together would drop their jaws askance at our physical differences. I feel as if they squint their eyes harder and look for some sort of similarities once the introductions are made and before you ask me, I will confirm that we all share our father’s blood group and no Sirs, no neighbour's evil gaze befell our home.

Keeping the oddity of our family case aside, I am often baffled by siblings who are the exact double of the other. I have had funny incidences with a set of twins that I gave up dealing with them. The miracle of DNA fortunately makes this phenomenon easy to understand.

My jaws were hurting from all the anxiety and stress held in there throughout the game and boy, was that a victory well deserved! I jumped, screamed and rolled in between, all by myself whilst watching yesterday’s world cup qualifier game between Sri Lanka and Bhutan. Whatever reactions I must have expressed certainly had a suiting remark from my daughter who looked up at me in the end and said “Mommy, are you a boy?” that had me think for a moment if that was the line I would have normally used on her.

I always thought someone would make me very proud one day, and on the stage when the world would cheer for him/her, his/her vote of thanks would contain the sentence somewhere that goes something like "I would like to thank my wife/sister/aunt/mom/grandma Kinga Choden for her constant support without which I would not be here today". The first person I had hoped this would come from was my husband when he was part of the music industry, which he quit before he even began a possibly great path. My several brothers, nieces and nephews gave me flickers of hope here and there but they all passed, because you see, boyhood/girlhood brings on strange behaviours  depending on a teenager's numerous seasons of love.