My happiness

 Ngultrum 1850.

I dug deep into my pockets again and again, checking every possible hiding place in my wallet. I counted and recounted—Nu. 1850 was all I had left. It was the remaining balance from my very first salary at my new job.

Just a month earlier, I had been so excited to finally be employed. Now, a month later, I was already worrying about what I would tell my parents. The moment an American tourist tested positive for COVID-19, the government announced immediate border closure. Panic buying began everywhere. My parents had reminded me several times to stock up on essentials that could last for months.

But how could I tell them that I had only Nu. 1850?
More than half my salary had already gone into rent and bills. With the little I had left, I bought utensils, a mattress, and a quilt for my parents, because I had brought them to live with me. They were so proud—glowing even—when they told every villager we met on the way, “We are going to live with our son in Thimphu.” I wanted to give them the best I could.

My father often talked about the 1962 India–China war, when shells were heard whizzing overhead. Indian soldiers were massacred, and many believed that Chinese troops had crossed into Bhutan. He recalled how hard those times were, especially when food became scarce.

For me, memories drifted back to my childhood in our eastern village. There was no motorable road then; it took two full days on foot to reach home. It was easier to cross the border to Tawang in India than to travel to Trashigang town for groceries. I loved going to Tawang—there was always a chance to get chewing gum and Indian biscuits.

Life in a remote village was never easy. Throughout summer, my father stayed awake most nights guarding our crops from wild animals. After dinner, he would head straight to the fields. His only companions were a dim kerosene lamp and an old tin hanging above his head, which he struck from time to time to make noise. Only now do I realize how tough it must have been to stay up all night, then work the fields from dawn to dusk the next day. After all that backbreaking effort, we ended up with just a few sacks of grain—barely enough for the year.

“Karma… Karma!”
The sudden shout pulled me out of my thoughts. It was my father. The television volume was high, and the Prime Minister had just stepped up to the podium. He announced that there was enough food in stock and that people did not need to worry. I breathed a long sigh of relief.

“See, Father,” I said, “we don’t need to worry.”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the announcement. Instead, I slipped into my room, thankful that I wouldn’t have to confess that I had only Nu. 1850. I had enough to keep my parents comfortable for now. Another month, another salary—and I would manage.