Agency: It was a golden evening in Thimphu, one of those quiet peaceful evenings, when the air was soft, the prayer flags were blowing idly, and the sun was starting to set behind the mountains. I was in the fifth grade, anxious about my midterm examinations.
My mother had decided to drive me and my little brother to Dechenphug Lhakhang to pay some prayers before the exams. Little did I realize at the time that this simple scheme would initiate me into the greatest adventure of my life which still remained with me ever since.
It was only 4 o’clock in the evening, when we started our short journey. Slowly the car proceeded along the winding path leading to Dechenphug, and as it went through the pine-trees, they appeared to murmur their own prayers to the evening air. My mother was softly chanting the prayer under her breath and my little brother was humming a tune, and he was very happy and did not know the burden of my nervous thoughts.
The closer we came to the temple, the softer the sun’s rays became wrapping everything in the warm glow of gold. I remember that I felt relaxed when we parked the car. A faint odor of incense spread in the air and the sound of prayer wheels were heard softly in the distant. Individuals were entering and leaving the gates of the temples with their butter lamps and their offerings, and they had their peaceful and pious faces.
I got out of the car and my mother told me to remember to bring my offering bowl. I remember holding it close to my chest, and not dropping anything. That day the air seemed different, it was still, but some unseen energy that I did not understand was in it.
As we started to walk towards the Lhakhang, there was something out of the ordinary that struck my attention. A small group of people had gathered close to the edge of the parking lot. The air was very quiet, not noisy, as it were but full of excitement. Some of the monks were standing about with their hands clasped together. I was unable to clearly see who was in the middle of the crowd.
Curious, I tugged at my mother’s kira. I whispered, “Ama, why are people standing there?” My mother stared at the audience. She made no reply for a second. Her eyes slightly opened and her voice fell to a whisper of surprise and reverence. “Wait!”, she a said softly, “ looks like…” She did not finish her entire term.
It was difficult to see in the evening sun. I squinted my eyes to get a glimpse of the figure that stood a little way outside the small crowd. The first thing I saw was a man in a black gho, he was tall, and his stance was gracious and dignified. The men near him prostrated themselves a little, some even having tears. His presence was regal, but calm and powerful.
As we approached a bit nearer, I could see his face, and it was gentle, wise, and radiant in the setting sun. I felt my heart beat had stopped. The silence was interrupted by the voice of my mother who was trembling with emotion, “It is his Majesty the Fourth Druk Gyalpo.”
The words resonated in my mind, and sounded like a prayer. I could not believe it awhile. The Fourth Druk Gyalpo, His Majesty Jigme Singye Wangchuck, the dear King who had reigned Bhutan with wisdom, compassion and vision. The King of the very picture which had been exhibited in my classroom, whose anecdotes of statesmanship my teachers had spoken about with awe. Now he was standing right before my eyes.