In the Silence of Passing Days
“This year’s going by so fast,” Zamin said as she chopped tomatoes, her youthful voice rising just enough to cut through the music blaring from the Bluetooth speaker on top of the table. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and we were preparing lunch in our small kitchen, the windows fogged slightly from steam and the warmth of spices dancing in the air. Precious was sprawled on the table like royalty, curled into herself, soft belly exposed, completely unbothered by the buzz of our lives. I nodded, stirring the kewa datshi absently. “It really is,” I said. “Last year felt like it crawled with a broken foot. This one’s galloping ahead like it’s in a race.” We smiled, both letting the thought settle, how strange time can be. In Bhutan, life follows a gentler rhythm, prayer flags fluttering on distant hills, the sound of monks chanting in the distance, the weight of tradition grounding the chaos. And yet, even here, I can feel the days slipping faster than they used to. Zamin has grow...