The Pen does a “Talk Show”

still mightier

Hello, I’m a pen and sure happy to be one.  Something called the keyboard meteorite fell from the sky and damn near obliterated my species. That narrow escape notwithstanding, I’m still mightier than the sword because I do the signing to get stuff going. My tip is, however, a double edged one; I can also freeze well-intentioned motion. We live a life of uncertainly, not knowing what crazy technology lies around the corner.  The brighter side is that Bill Gates has moved on to the foundation. But then again, Steve Jobs is still around, eating that goddamned apple that doomed us all.

Well, I’m trying my hand at talking, springing out of the page as it were. A pen is, after all, words scrawled on paper.  And so it begins with ‘nice to meet you folks. Meet, meeting, that sure is a meaty opening line. This office deals with tourism and that one with employment. There’s disaster management, religion and that one isn’t quite sure why it’s there at all. Nonetheless, they all have something in common. No points for guessing, no genius needed here. Meetings, yes meetings. How could any organization survive without meetings? Ohh…ahhh… the tea and the snacks, the momentous hours spent vociferously tearing apart something to ensure that it becomes nothing – such blissful memories.  It’s the ‘non-stop talk shop.’

We have ‘One Stop Shop’ coming out of our ears, contending with the chili back-draft from every other orifice. And that is as far as this visionary concept extends. It stops right there.  In reality, there is literally an infinite highway to get a business license or more hideously, the paper work to build one’s own shelter.  Exasperatedly – “all right, I’ll do without the water, drainage or electricity, just (skulls and bones and worse) let me build.”  Hey, the chair talks too. “Sorry, my occupant has become an inmate just like many others here. We are understaffed.”  It almost makes it sound like the ACC is a subversive foreign hand hell bent on disrupting development.  “Hey, don’t sentence me to more time in waiting than them who were convicted for the crime.”

It is a dizzying run around the mulberry bush – especially when you’re past the mid-life crisis. There is, however, a silver lining on every cloud.  I can get away from the insanity of it all. There’s so much on offer. It is definitely going to be a one-way ticket, but where? Bartsham, Yongphula or Bumthang? I’ll settle for Gelephu. The logic being that if the sky is not the limit, why not discover the wondrous conquest of land too. It will be a package holiday. On alighting from the plane I’ll rent a quota-gate Prado and take that magical drive across the longest bridge in Asia, over the Mahakhola. Now, that would be a good break, if there ever was one.

As a pen I’m often criticized about consistency. Whether it be for want of ink or having it in excess, only god knows. I say, I got to open up a column and move on so that others of my ilk can grab the opportunity. There are always so many of them, much better than me, eagerly awaiting that chance. It would break my heart not to give them that. I say, “you want me around warming the chair until the contours of my butt have been indelibly imprinted on it. You want me to be around for 20 years, shit I either got to be crazy, selfish or a government minister. I don’t want it said that there is just no retiring in this guy. That’s not me. ”

You want to know what I think about this new found democracy. The way I see it, it is license to screw up. You must have read somewhere that a company don’t want female sweepers on site. They’re kind of smart because we seriously need to train male sweepers. They’re the ones renowned for making remarkable messes. We are still unable to sweep up the dirt strewn by men who never learnt to wield the broom. And they’re too frail and senile to ever pick up the art now.  The landfills are full, and much of the overflow has been dumped down the hillside, dogs too. What remains is the art of Tai Chi. Deep breaths, outstretched hands and extended fingers, only here it’s called the blame game.

I’ve got so much more to say, but then again I’m a pen. I don’t run on empty (promises). I can’t, with the sleight of hand, take a rabbit out of my shoes. The shoe is in no way as spacious as the Tsoglham nor as colorful.  Besides I see the approach of a menacing stick and sense much fiery wrath in the air. It’s time to sign off now. I’m getting one of those attacks. It’s called democratic depression. Just don’t forget, I’m still the one signing off.