Photo © Tenzin Tsetan Choklay Tenzin Dickie is a writer and a translator. She has been a Fulbright fellow and a fellow of the American Literary Translators’ Association, as well as an editor of the Tibetan Political Review and Apogee Journal. A graduate of Harvard and Columbia, she is currently communications coordinator at the Buddhist Digital Resource Center and managing editor of the Journal of Tibetan Literature. Her poetry was most recently anthologized in Modern English Poetry by Younger Indians published by the Indian Academy of Letters.

from “The Connection” by Bhuchung D. Sonam

“You have a background,” said the police inspector.

It was the first thing he said after ordering me to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. He knew me from my many previous visits to the police station.

“I…I…” I intentionally fumbled. Having read enough detective stories and crime thrillers, I knew what “background” meant, especially when used by a senior police officer.

“Young man, go on, what do you say to that?” he said.

“Sir, I don’t understand what you mean,” I answered respectfully. I had found that things often worked in my favor when I used polite language and lots of “sirs” with government officials and policemen. These saabs liked to use authoritative language to reinforce their positions of superiority. On the white wall behind the inspector’s head was a map of India on a rusty nail and a two-year-old calendar.

Perhaps the calendar was kept there for its image; an intimidating painting of the four-armed wrathful goddess Kali extending her tongue to her chin and adorned with a necklace of human skulls.

“Kabir, pani lao,” the inspector commanded his peon. A little later a man appeared with two glasses of water. He placed them on the table, bowed a little, and left the room.

“Think . . . think about where you travelled and who you met over the last year,” said the inspector, pushing one of the glasses towards me. I was taken aback when he said “year.” I thought about how I should respond.

“Sir, I just came here to ask about my Identity Certificate. The police inquiry has not come through yet. It’s been two years since I applied,” I said. In fact, it had been more than two years. An IC is the yellow booklet issued to Tibetan refugees as a travel document, in lieu of a passport. It was a complex and laborious procedure to get one. When I called and got through to someone at the Regional Passport Office about the status of my IC, the lady who answered directed me to go to the local police station, since the necessary background clearance must come from there. The police had to issue a No Objection letter and send my file back to the passport office. If the slow-motioned bureaucratic juggling went well, the travel document would be issued within a few years. But any forward movement in the process would not happen without a letter from the local police station. And this was how I landed at the police station.

“I know. We have your file in there,” the inspector said. He pointed to a cupboard packed with rows of spineless yellow cardboard folders each containing forms and handwritten observations clamped together by a neatly knotted white string.

He took a long sip from his glass and made a phone call most likely to someone of equal rank as himself. He mentioned Case Number Twenty-Five a few times and said that he had had no new leads. I stared at the files and at the computer. The keyboard had turned yellowish from age and overuse and the Logitech mouse looked tired. There was a distinct mark of index fingers on the right click button. A 3D text screen With You, For You Always revolved slowly on the monitor. The CPU swished as the system fan blew out hot air from the hard disk. I felt anxiety building inside me. The phone call ended with a Hindi maxim that could be loosely be translated as “the fish will land in the net.”

Photo © Tenzin Tsetan Choklay Tenzin Dickie is a writer and a translator. She has been a Fulbright fellow and a fellow of the American Literary Translators’ Association, as well as an editor of the Tibetan Political Review and Apogee Journal. A graduate of Harvard and Columbia, she is currently communications coordinator at the Buddhist Digital Resource Center and managing editor of the Journal of Tibetan Literature. Her poetry was most recently anthologized in Modern English Poetry by Younger Indians published by the Indian Academy of Letters.

from “The Connection” by Bhuchung D. Sonam

“You have a background,” said the police inspector.

It was the first thing he said after ordering me to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. He knew me from my many previous visits to the police station.

“I…I…” I intentionally fumbled. Having read enough detective stories and crime thrillers, I knew what “background” meant, especially when used by a senior police officer.

“Young man, go on, what do you say to that?” he said.

“Sir, I don’t understand what you mean,” I answered respectfully. I had found that things often worked in my favor when I used polite language and lots of “sirs” with government officials and policemen. These saabs liked to use authoritative language to reinforce their positions of superiority. On the white wall behind the inspector’s head was a map of India on a rusty nail and a two-year-old calendar.

Perhaps the calendar was kept there for its image; an intimidating painting of the four-armed wrathful goddess Kali extending her tongue to her chin and adorned with a necklace of human skulls.

“Kabir, pani lao,” the inspector commanded his peon. A little later a man appeared with two glasses of water. He placed them on the table, bowed a little, and left the room.

“Think . . . think about where you travelled and who you met over the last year,” said the inspector, pushing one of the glasses towards me. I was taken aback when he said “year.” I thought about how I should respond.

“Sir, I just came here to ask about my Identity Certificate. The police inquiry has not come through yet. It’s been two years since I applied,” I said. In fact, it had been more than two years. An IC is the yellow booklet issued to Tibetan refugees as a travel document, in lieu of a passport. It was a complex and laborious procedure to get one. When I called and got through to someone at the Regional Passport Office about the status of my IC, the lady who answered directed me to go to the local police station, since the necessary background clearance must come from there. The police had to issue a No Objection letter and send my file back to the passport office. If the slow-motioned bureaucratic juggling went well, the travel document would be issued within a few years. But any forward movement in the process would not happen without a letter from the local police station. And this was how I landed at the police station.

“I know. We have your file in there,” the inspector said. He pointed to a cupboard packed with rows of spineless yellow cardboard folders each containing forms and handwritten observations clamped together by a neatly knotted white string.

He took a long sip from his glass and made a phone call most likely to someone of equal rank as himself. He mentioned Case Number Twenty-Five a few times and said that he had had no new leads. I stared at the files and at the computer. The keyboard had turned yellowish from age and overuse and the Logitech mouse looked tired. There was a distinct mark of index fingers on the right click button. A 3D text screen With You, For You Always revolved slowly on the monitor. The CPU swished as the system fan blew out hot air from the hard disk. I felt anxiety building inside me. The phone call ended with a Hindi maxim that could be loosely be translated as “the fish will land in the net.”