I wrote this when we were in Bhutan

‘So, how long can you stay here?’ This is the first or final question I encounter every time I appear before an interview for a teaching job. Keeping aside my certificates of qualifications and whatever fragments of experiences I can claim about, this question lingering in the eyes of my would be or would not be employers reverberates in my mind too. I am an air force officer’s wife. Does that award me the certificate of a gypsy or a nomad? However sincere I am in my job, the sincerity I owe and show to my family of a husband and two sons make my superiors and colleagues eye me with suspicion because they know that with a posting signal of my husband I will be out of my job.
The plethora of experiences that I and my sons have had just because of my husband being in service is something any one could boast about; just like a retired army man in a village tea shop opening his oft repeated bundle of valor. I have studied from nursery to tenth standard in one school; my son who is 8 years old is attending his eighth school. That’s not all; he has also studied different languages in different schools, Malayalam, Hindi and Dzongkha. Thanks to the universal language English he could learn his math and science without any breaks.
Somebody who was terribly bored with his job recently told me that I was lucky that I can lead the protected life of a housewife. The other day when I had to leave my job of 8 months as a teacher I heard my elder son ask his father,’ Acha so amma will be a house wife now?’ My husband reprimanded him by saying that his mother is a qualified teacher and should not be called a housewife. For eight months I was totally busy with my job and home. All of a sudden I felt my clock has stopped leaving me alone to push and pull the needle of time ahead. Never to belittle the job of a housewife or a ‘home maker’; to put it euphemistically; modern technology has reduced the strain and stress of household chores to such an extent that people like me find plenty of time to spare. I always make an effort to make myself believe that I am busy. When I had all the time to myself, I suddenly realized that the carpets needed a wash and the music system had to have its cover changed. The kitchen towels were dirty and so was the dining table cloth. There were lots of books that I wanted to read and lot to think.
Still, staring at the spinning wheel of water from the garden fountain or gazing at the mountain ridges covered with snow, listening to the rugged music of the chilling winds on the valley and the chirping of the betel nut sized sparrows on the trees I muse upon my loneliness, to bring bliss to my solitude. I am no poet; still, I write odes to nobody in moments of dejection; I wait for April to plant the seeds of flowers and watch them every morning and evening for signs of growth gathering hopes for; ‘If winter comes can spring be far behind?’