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 the cash in my hands. Nu. 1850 was all I had left—the remaining balance from my very first salary at my new job.

Just a month earlier, I had been thrilled to finally secure employment. Now, barely weeks later, I was worrying about what I would tell my parents.

The moment an American tourist tested positive for COVID-19, the government announced the immediate closure of Bhutan’s borders. Panic buying erupted across the country. Shelves were being emptied, and people rushed to stock up on essentials. My parents had reminded me several times to buy enough food and supplies to last for months.

But how could I tell them that I had only Nu. 1850?

More than half of my salary had already gone toward rent and utility bills. With most of what remained, I bought utensils, a mattress, and a warm quilt for my parents because I had brought them to live with me in Thimphu. They were overjoyed. Along the journey, they proudly told every villager we met, “We are going to live with our son in Thimphu.”

Their happiness meant everything to me. I wanted to give them the best life I could.

My father often spoke about the 1962 India–China war. He remembered hearing artillery shells whizzing overhead and the fear that spread through the villages. Stories circulated that Chinese troops had crossed into Bhutan. Those were difficult times, he would say, especially when food became scarce and uncertainty hung over every household.

His stories brought back memories of my own childhood in our remote village in eastern Bhutan. Back then, there was no motorable road. Reaching home required two full days of walking. In fact, it was easier to cross the border into Tawang in India than to travel to Trashigang town for groceries. As a child, I loved those trips to Tawang. There was always a chance of returning with chewing gum, Indian biscuits, or some other small treat.

Life in a remote village was never easy.

Throughout the summer months, my father spent countless nights guarding our crops from wild animals. After dinner, while the rest of us slept, he would head to the fields. His only companions were a dim kerosene lamp and an old tin can suspended above his head. Every so often, he would strike the tin to create noise and scare away wild boars, deer, and other animals.

Only now do I realize how difficult those nights must have been. He stayed awake until dawn, only to spend the entire day working in the fields. Yet after months of labor, we harvested only a few sacks of grain—barely enough to sustain the family through the year.

“Karma... Karma!”

The sudden shout pulled me out of my thoughts.

It was my father.

The television volume was turned up high, and the Prime Minister had just stepped up to the podium. The nation waited anxiously as he addressed the growing concerns surrounding the pandemic.

Then came the words I desperately needed to hear.

There was enough food in stock, he assured the public. There was no need to panic.

I let out a long sigh of relief.

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

I did not wait to hear the rest of the announcement.

Instead, I quietly slipped into my room, grateful that I would not have to confess that I had only Nu. 1850 left in my pocket. For now, I had enough to keep my parents comfortable and safe.

Another month would come. Another salary would arrive.

And somehow, I would manage.