In the Bhutanese tradition, stories, fables, and legends are not told but are unraveled (shigai in Bumthangkha) and released (tangshi in Dzongkha). To me these concepts of releasing and unraveling are invested with much significance. It means that storytelling is a continuous process (unraveling) and to be released stories must be alive and vibrant. Stories are, therefore, alive and continuous, not only in the minds of those who unravel and those who release them, but also in the minds of those who listen to them being unraveled and released. This oral tradition, transmitted by one generation to another, is thus the continuing and living thread that links one generation to another.
The nine years of childhood spent in Tang Ugen Choling was very short, especially in terms of how much time I could spend with my parents. The duties of feudal lords were by no means simple and a certain amount of dedication and sacrifice was necessary to live through the many intricacies and sensibilities of dealing with human beings, the most important of which was trying to keep everybody contented and the village in harmony. This took up much of my parents’ time. I may have been better off than many of my friends from the village in many ways. But I was certainly deprived of much valuable time with my parents. This was made worse by their untimely deaths. I could be with my parents only at specified times of the day. I had to fill in the rest of the time on my own. So I did what the other children of the village did, and played games rich in fantasy and filled with imagination. Above all I shared one common bond with every child in the village and that was the intense love of stories, legends and fables.
As I reminisce now of the storytelling sessions, I see a circle of adults and children relaxing in the late afternoon sun, in the West Gate field of Ugen Choling naktsang, listening in rapt attention to every word of the storyteller. At other times it was in the evenings, sitting around a charcoal brazier in the flickering light of the lawang. As the flickering light cast remarkable arrays of shadows, the images from the stories came to life and became real. Our imaginations and fantasies knew no bounds. We could listen to the same stories again and again, enthralled, as if we were listening to them for the first time. The stories touched our lives so deeply that a good storyteller could evoke every kind of emotion from the listeners. There was tears in silence for the tragedies, peels of laughter at the comical episodes, anger at the injustice, and feelings of triumph at the victories of the heroes. There were also times when the younger children would lie down and rest their heads on the knees of the adults and drift off into easy sleep. Overall, these sessions were accessible, enjoyable, and meaningful. Only at that time I did not realize their importance in my life.
The stories enriched the world we lived in. Although we did not physically travel beyond the mountains that enclosed the Tang valley, in our minds, our worlds extended far beyond: like the characters in the stories we climbed many mountains and crossed many valleys where everything became possible. Spirits, ghosts, and sinpos lived and competed in wit and strength with the human beings. Animals spoke and interacted with the human beings, sometimes as their enemies but other times as helpful friends. There was life in the other worlds, which human beings could momentarily enter and obtain a glimpse of the world of gods, spirits, and subterranean beings. Magic and myth abounded and became almost inseparable from our realities. There were stories that extolled the universal virtues of compassion, humility, kindness, and integrity. Yet there were other stories that spoke of senseless cruelty and crude and deceitful acts. But it was the fairly consistent themes (especially in the namthars or religious stories, not included here) of the stories that impressed us the most. Good triumphed over evil, quiet humility won over loud braggadocio and the rich generally conceded to the poor.
Some of the stories stayed alive in my mind even during the fourteen years of my cultural exile in India (at boarding school), often providing me with a safe refuge and solace in times of loneliness and depression, in trying to adjust and later on to understand other cultures. Memories of the stories helped to keep the link to my roots and, therefore, gave me my identity. I knew who I really was even when I was trying to conform to being somebody else! Years later I made efforts to trace the storytellers of the village to familiarize myself again with some of the stories of which I was no longer so sure. During this time I came to the realization that the art of the oral tradition is definitely on the decline; worse still, the story sessions are rapidly being replaced by video sessions which screen popular films from Hollywood, Bombay, and Hong Kong. The flickering lawang is now being replaced by the flashing blue-white light of the television set. I was immensely saddened when an old man who had told me many stories in childhood said, “I have forgotten all those stories. But everybody these days watches videos. Why do you want me to tell old stories?”
As I realize the importance of the stories as a link to who I am and where I come from, I also realize how important they will be to my children. It is for them and others of their generation that I write these stories with the hope that they will be of some value in their lives to link up with their cultural base so that in knowing their base they may better understand and appreciate their own lives.
The storytelling sessions are not a one-way communication where the storyteller simply talks and the others passively listen. There has to be constant interaction. Beyond the sad expressions of “ayi wha” and the “yaah lama” of surprise, someone from among the listeners has to respond to every sequence of the story. After every sequence a listener must say, “Aeii” or “tse ni” in Bumthangkha, “delay” in Dzongkha. These literally translate to, “and then”. Only when there is a response from the listeners will the storyteller continue the story with an exaggerated “Tse n..i..i..i” in Bumthangkha or “dela..a..a..y” in Dzongkha. This custom is to prevent the spirits from listening to the stories and stealing them. As long as a human being responds and indicates that the story is being listened to, the spirits cannot steal them.
Every Bhutanese story begins with Dangbo and Dingbo. These two terms are used either as nouns, as in “Dangbo thik naki key whenda” which would be equivalent to saying “there once was a Dangbo and a Dingbo”, or as indications of time, as in “Dangbo Dingbo” which would equate to “long long ago”. The length of time is made more specific by sounding the words Dangbo and Dingbo long or short. So, “Dangbo Dingbo” said with a short sound indicates a shorter time than if said “Dangbo..o..o Dingbo..o..o..”, which would mean a long, long, long time ago. The close of a storytelling session is usually marked by a customary story about Dangbo and Dingbo themselves, and I have followed this practice in this book.
It is more than likely that many of the stories bear similarities to stories from around the world. In fact in some cases the likeness is striking as in the story of the “Lame Monkey” and the world-famous fairy tale “Puss in Boots”. Considering the similarities that exist between two such vastly different countries/cultures as Bhutan and Germany, it is not surprising to hear similar stories told around the region, especially in Tibet, India, and Nepal. In fact it is difficult to tell where each story may have actually originated, because so many local characteristics have been attributed to the stories in every place where they are told that they become drastically or subtly different but definitely unique to the particular region. But my intention here is not to trace the origin of each story or seek out similarities and differences. I wish to simply release and unravel the stories I heard in my childhood and now remember.
The reader will notice how freely Dzongkha, Bumthangkha, Kurtoipkha and Tibetan phrases are interspersed in the stories. This is the actual case and, therefore, I have not restrained myself to using one language. I use the phrases as they appear in the original stories. The glossary provides explanations of such terms and phrases (indicated by bold italic in the text). As far as possible, I have given a brief translation of these words when they occur in the stories for the convenience of the reader.
Finally I wish to make only one request to the readers—do pause long enough to say “tse ni” or “delay” every now and then so that these stories may not be stolen and they may remain ours to keep and pass on.