High in the mountains of Bhutan, where prayer flags flutter in the thin air and yak herds graze on steep hillsides, there lived a poor couple named Thonglay Tashi and his wife Bugizom. Their stone cottage was small and humble, perched on a mountainside where cold winds whistled through the cracks in winter and monsoon rains drummed on the roof in summer. They owned almost nothing of value in this world, their possessions so few they could count them on one hand.
But there was one thing they treasured above all else: a charkhab, a thick raingear woven from coarse yak hair. This charkhab was their most prized possession, serving as a raincoat during the heavy mountain downpours and as a warm blanket during the bitter winter months when frost painted intricate patterns on their window and snow buried the mountain passes. The charkhab was old and worn, its original dark color faded to a dull, lifeless gray from years of use.
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For many seasons, Thonglay Tashi had dreamed of dyeing their precious charkhab to restore its color and make it beautiful again. He would sit by the fire in the evenings, imagining how magnificent it would look dyed a rich, deep red, the color of monks’ robes and auspicious ceremonies. But dye was expensive, and they were poor, so the dream remained just that: a dream.
One bright morning, as the sun climbed over the snow-capped peaks and cast long shadows across the valleys, Thonglay Tashi finally decided to act. He would go to the forest himself to collect dye shrubs that grew wild in the mountain woods. These plants, when boiled and prepared properly, could produce the red dye he longed for.
Before setting out with his woven basket slung over his shoulder, Thonglay Tashi called to his wife, who was stirring the morning tsampa porridge over the fire. “Bugizom, listen carefully,” he said earnestly. “While I am gone searching for dye plants, a dye merchant may pass by our house. If he comes, I want you to exchange one of our ladles for some red dye. Do you understand? A ladle for dye.”
Bugizom nodded obediently, though her mind was already wandering to other thoughts. “Yes, husband. A ladle for dye. I understand.”
Satisfied, Thonglay Tashi set off down the mountain path, disappearing into the dense rhododendron forest that clung to the slopes like a green blanket.
The morning was still young when Bugizom heard the distant tinkling of bells. She looked out and saw a traveling dye merchant making his way up the steep path, his pony laden with bundles of dried dye materials and small packets of prepared pigments. Her heart leaped with excitement. Here was the merchant her husband had mentioned!
She hurried outside and called to the merchant, who stopped his pony and greeted her with a weary smile. “Good morning, merchant!” Bugizom said cheerfully. “My husband said you might come! I have a ladle I would like to exchange for some red dye.”
She ran back inside and brought out their smallest wooden ladle, its surface smooth from years of use. She held it up proudly, certain the merchant would accept such a fine trade.
But the merchant looked at the small ladle and shook his head. “No, no. That ladle is too small. It’s not worth the dye you’re asking for.”
Bugizom’s face fell, but she was determined. “Wait! I have a bigger one!” She rushed back inside and returned with their larger cooking ladle, this one with a longer handle and deeper bowl.
Again, the merchant shook his head. “Still not enough. I’m sorry, but I cannot accept it.”
Bugizom stood there, wringing her hands with distress. Her husband had been so clear in his instructions: get red dye if the merchant came. But the merchant wouldn’t accept the ladles. What else could she offer? She looked around their small home, her eyes falling on the neatly folded charkhab resting on their sleeping platform.
“Wait!” she called out as the merchant was beginning to lead his pony away. “I have something else!” She grabbed the charkhab and hurried back outside, holding it up. “What about this? Will you accept our charkhab for the red dye?”
The merchant’s eyes lit up immediately. A charkhab woven from yak hair was valuable, far more valuable than a small packet of dye. He could hardly believe his good fortune. “Yes! Yes, of course! This is perfect!” He quickly handed her a small bundle of red dye and took the charkhab, folding it carefully and placing it among his goods. Then he hurried away down the mountain path before the woman could change her mind, the bells on his pony jingling merrily as he departed.
Later that afternoon, as the sun began its descent behind the western peaks, Thonglay Tashi returned home. His back was bent under the weight of his basket, now filled to the brim with dye shrubs he had spent all day collecting. His face was flushed with satisfaction and anticipation.
The moment he crossed the threshold of their home, he called out eagerly, “Bugizom! Did the dye merchant come by?”
“Yes, husband!” Bugizom replied proudly. “He came, and I bought the red dye you wanted, just as you asked!”
Thonglay Tashi’s face broke into a wide smile. “My wise old woman did a good job!” he exclaimed with delight. “Now, quickly, take out the charkhab and let me start dyeing it right away! With the plants I collected and the dye you bought, we’ll have the most beautiful charkhab in all the mountains!”
But Bugizom’s smile faded. “Well, husband,” she said hesitantly, “the merchant wouldn’t accept the small ladle. And he wouldn’t accept the big ladle either. So I gave him the charkhab instead. He accepted it happily.”
The joy drained from Thonglay Tashi’s face as if someone had poured cold water over him. “What?” he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You gave him… the charkhab? The thing we were going to dye? The whole reason we needed the dye in the first place?”
Bugizom nodded innocently.
“My foolish old woman didn’t do a good job!” Thonglay Tashi cried out in dismay. He dropped his basket of carefully collected dye plants and immediately rushed out of the house, running down the mountain path in pursuit of the dye merchant.
His legs carried him swiftly down the winding trail, through stands of prayer flags that snapped in the wind, past small chortens where travelers left offerings. His breath came in gasps in the thin mountain air, but desperation drove him forward.
As he rounded a bend near a rocky outcrop, he spotted a woman sitting beside a cave, her hands working rhythmically at a traditional loom, weaving colorful patterns into cloth. Thonglay Tashi recognized her immediately as the dye merchant’s wife. He had seen her at the market in town on several occasions.
A cunning plan formed in his mind. He crept closer, moving quietly so she wouldn’t notice him. Then he sat down near her on a flat rock, crossed his legs in meditation posture, closed his eyes, and became as still as a statue.
The woman continued her weaving, the wooden shuttle passing back and forth, back and forth. After some time, she happened to glance up and nearly jumped out of her skin with fright. A strange man was sitting there beside her cave, silent and motionless as a stone Buddha!
“Who are you?” she shrieked, her hand pressed to her chest. “Why are you here? Where did you come from? Did you fall from heaven above or rise from hell below? Why don’t you speak?”
Thonglay Tashi had heard the gossip in the village. He knew that this woman and her husband had lost their son several years ago, and that the grief still weighed heavily on their hearts. Now he would use this knowledge.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked at her with a grave expression. “I have come from hell,” he said in a solemn, otherworldly voice, “where your son has committed a terrible offense. He has broken the horns of Shenje, the Lord of Death himself! The Lord is furious, and your son has sent me here to collect reparations from his parents to appease Shenje’s anger.”
The woman’s face went pale as mountain snow. “No! Not even in death can our son behave himself! He’s still causing trouble, still bringing shame on us! Breaking the horns of the Lord of Death? What madness!” She wrung her hands in anguish, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks. “What does Shenje want? What reparations must we pay? We cannot have the Lord of Death angry with our family!”
“He wants compensation for his broken horns,” Thonglay Tashi said gravely. “And it must be substantial.”
“Take whatever you need!” the woman cried desperately. “Take money, take our possessions, take whatever will satisfy the Lord!” She rushed into her house and began bringing out items: coins, jewelry, fine cloth, copper pots, silver butter lamps, everything of value she could find. She piled it all at Thonglay Tashi’s feet.
Thonglay Tashi gathered everything into a large bundle, hoisted it onto his back, and set off down the mountain path, moving as quickly as his burden would allow.
That evening, when the dye merchant returned home, he immediately sensed something was wrong. His wife sat by the fire, her face dark and troubled, her arms crossed, refusing to look at him or speak.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, growing concerned. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Finally, she burst out, “I’m angry at our son! Even from hell, he brings us trouble and shame! He broke the horns of Shenje, the Lord of Death, and the Lord sent a messenger to collect reparations. The messenger took everything, everything we own! Our money, our valuables, all our wealth!” She broke down sobbing.
The merchant’s eyes went wide with shock and then narrowed with suspicion. “A messenger from hell? Taking reparations? This doesn’t sound right.” A terrible realization dawned on him. “That charkhab I got today, that trade seemed too good to be true! Someone has tricked us!”
He leaped to his feet and rushed out into the darkening evening, looking frantically in all directions. In the distance, on the path leading down the mountain, he could just make out the figure of a man carrying a large bundle on his back.
“There! That’s him! That’s the thief!” the merchant shouted. “Let me see how far and fast you can run before I catch you!” And he took off running, his legs pumping as he raced down the mountain path.
Thonglay Tashi heard the shouts behind him and glanced back to see the merchant giving chase. His heart leaped into his throat. The bundle on his back was heavy, slowing him down, and the merchant was gaining ground quickly.
Just as panic was about to overtake him, Thonglay Tashi spotted a man ploughing a terraced field beside the path. The ploughman was guiding two strong oxen, their hooves turning the rich earth in preparation for planting.
“Run! Run! Run!” Thonglay Tashi shouted as he approached. “A man is coming to kill you! Run for your life!”
The ploughman looked up, startled, and saw a wild-eyed man screaming at him and another man chasing behind. Without thinking, driven by pure instinct, he dropped the plough handles and took off running across the field and into the forest beyond.
Thonglay Tashi quickly set down his bundle, grabbed the plough handles, and bent over them as if he had been working there all along. The oxen, well-trained and patient, simply continued standing in place.
Moments later, the dye merchant arrived, panting and gasping for breath. “Which way?” he demanded. “Which way did he go?”
Thonglay Tashi, without looking up, pointed toward the forest where the ploughman had disappeared. “That way! He ran into the trees! You can still catch him if you hurry!”
The merchant took off again, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit.
After some time of running through the dense forest, the merchant finally caught up with the ploughman, who had slowed down, confused and exhausted.
“Give me back my belongings!” the merchant demanded, grabbing the man’s arm.
“What belongings?” the ploughman gasped, bewildered. “I don’t have anything of yours! I don’t even know you!”
“You stole from my house! You pretended to be a messenger from hell!”
“I’m just a simple farmer! A crazy man told me someone was coming to kill me, so I ran! That’s all I know!”
Slowly, understanding dawned on both men. They had been fooled by the same trickster. But by the time they made their way back to the field, Thonglay Tashi was long gone.
Meanwhile, Thonglay Tashi had returned home, bringing not only the bundle of valuables but also the ploughman’s two fine oxen. He felt quite pleased with himself as he led the animals to his wife.
“Bugizom,” he said proudly, “take these oxen to graze where the grass is greenest and most luxuriant. These are valuable animals, and we must take good care of them.”
Bugizom took the rope and led the oxen out to find the best grazing spot. She walked all around their mountain home, looking carefully at the grass everywhere. But the valley grass seemed thin and yellowed. The grass near their house seemed sparse and dry. The only place where the grass appeared truly green and luxuriant was high up on the cliff faces, where tiny patches of vegetation clung to the rocky slopes, fed by seeping springs and protected from grazing animals.
“Ah!” Bugizom said to herself. “That’s where the grass is greenest! My husband told me to take them where the grass is best, so that’s where I must go!”
She began leading the oxen up a steep, narrow path that wound its way up the cliff face. The animals followed reluctantly, their hooves slipping on the loose stones. Higher and higher they climbed, until they reached a small ledge where indeed the grass grew thick and green.
But the ledge was narrow and the drop was sheer. As the oxen moved forward to eat the tempting grass, their weight shifted. The edge of the cliff crumbled beneath their hooves. With terrified bellows, both oxen tumbled over the edge, falling through the air before crashing onto the rocks far below.
Bugizom stood there, horrified, watching as the valuable animals lay still and lifeless at the bottom of the cliff. Slowly, she made her way back down and returned home, her head hanging low.
When Thonglay Tashi saw her returning alone, his face fell. “Where are the oxen?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
“You told me to take them where the grass was greenest,” Bugizom said miserably. “The greenest grass was on the cliff, so I took them there. But they fell off and died.”
Thonglay Tashi sat down heavily, his head in his hands. They had started the day wanting to dye a charkhab. Now they had no charkhab, no oxen, and though they had some stolen goods, they would surely have to give them back or face the consequences when the truth came out.
“My foolish old woman,” Thonglay Tashi sighed deeply, “and my foolish old self. What a pair we make.”
And so the couple found themselves no better off than when they had started, perhaps even worse, all because of a series of foolish decisions and misunderstandings
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The Moral Lesson
This humorous tale teaches us about the importance of thinking carefully before acting and the dangers of taking instructions too literally without using common sense. Bugizom’s foolishness in trading the very item they wanted to dye, and then leading valuable oxen to a dangerous cliff, shows how literal thinking without wisdom can lead to disaster. Thonglay Tashi’s cleverness in deceiving others ultimately brought no lasting benefit because his wife’s lack of judgment ruined everything. The story reminds us that success requires not just cunning or obedience, but wisdom, careful thought, and the ability to understand the true purpose behind our actions.
Knowledge Check
Q1: What is a charkhab and why was it important to Thonglay Tashi and Bugizom?
A: A charkhab is a raingear woven from yak hair, traditionally used in Bhutan and Tibet. It serves as both a raincoat during monsoons and a warm blanket during cold winter months. For Thonglay Tashi and Bugizom, it was their most valuable possession in their otherwise impoverished household, making it essential for their survival in the harsh Himalayan climate.
Q2: What foolish mistake did Bugizom make with the dye merchant?
A: When the dye merchant refused to accept their ladles in exchange for red dye, Bugizom traded their precious charkhab instead. This was foolish because the whole purpose of buying the dye was to dye the charkhab itself. By giving away the charkhab to get the dye, she made the dye completely useless, defeating the entire purpose of the transaction.
Q3: How did Thonglay Tashi trick the merchant’s wife in this Bhutanese folktale?
A: Thonglay Tashi sat silently beside her in a meditation pose, then claimed he was a messenger from hell. He told her that her deceased son had broken the horns of Shenje (the Lord of Death) and that he had come to collect reparations. Knowing her grief over her lost son, he exploited her fear and guilt to make her give him all her valuables willingly.
Q4: Who is Shenje in Bhutanese culture and why is he significant to this story?
A: Shenje is the Lord of Death in Bhutanese Buddhist tradition, equivalent to Yama in Hindu mythology. He is the deity who judges souls after death and rules over the underworld. In the story, Thonglay Tashi uses the fear and respect that people have for Shenje to make his deception convincing, knowing that no parent would want their child to have offended such a powerful deity.
Q5: How did Thonglay Tashi escape from the pursuing merchant?
A: When the merchant chased him, Thonglay Tashi shouted to a ploughman working in a field that someone was coming to kill him. The frightened ploughman ran away, and Thonglay Tashi took his place at the plough. When the merchant arrived, Thonglay pointed him in the direction the ploughman had fled, causing the merchant to chase the wrong person while Thonglay escaped with the ploughman’s two oxen.
Q6: What is the irony in the ending of this Bhutanese folktale?
A: The irony is that despite Thonglay Tashi’s cleverness in deceiving others and obtaining valuable goods and oxen, his wife’s foolishness in taking the oxen to graze on a dangerous cliff (where the grass appeared greenest) resulted in their death. So all his cunning schemes came to nothing because of his wife’s literal interpretation of his instructions and lack of common sense. They ended up no better, and possibly worse, than when they started.
Source: Bhutanese folktale, Bhutan
