Precious “Trash”: Remembering Jigme Choedak

aka JC (1997-2023)

Bhuchung D Sonam

JC’s selfie, courtesy of his partner Lea

On the evening of 8th July 2023, filmmaker Tsewang, artist Jigme Choedak, musician Ngawang, and I sat in Dohra Café drinking beer and chatting. The monsoon skies fogged, and rain seemed imminent. We talked about film, art, music and, of course, politics. I made some jokes about contemporary Tibetan pop songs for their gawa la kyipa la (happy happy) lyrics and high decibel tunes uniformly manufactured and assembled in Kathmandu.

After a few cans of beer, Tsewang asked, “What is emptiness? Does it mean that nothing exists? What about me? I know I exist, and I am here.” He pointed to his chest and looked at us, hoping for answers. JC remained silent for a while and then said, “I find the idea of emptiness fascinating, but it’s hard to understand. We are here. This chair is here. The wall is here, and so are the beer cans. But nothing exists?”

“I don’t think emptiness means ‘nothing’ or ‘void’,” I said. “I think it’s a way to deconstruct our ‘selves’ so that we are reduced to our own sizes.” We laughed. Then, actor Lhakpa Tsering joined us, and the discussion went on for quite some time. When our stock of beer was over, raindrops came down like hordes of Mongolian invaders. We called it a night.

It was the last time I saw JC.

On the evening of 12^th July, I received a message from a friend. It said: “Genla, have you heard the terrible and shocking news? JC, the artist, is dead.” A sharp scorching sensation shot up from my belly towards the chest. My head reeled. I sat down and called our friends, who said that they were at the police station waiting for JC’s body to be released and asked me to arrange for monks to perform pujas. I called several monasteries in Dharamsala to find that no monks were available. In the end, I managed to assemble a small group of ngagpas to perform tantric pujas and the last rites the following morning.

Like many of our friends, JC and I live in Gamru village, where traditionally Indian cobblers and blacksmiths reside. Rents are cheaper in this locality, and it is relatively quiet. I often saw JC with his white Bucket Hat and carrying a shoulder bag. Many times, I found him either in Dohra Café or Barako Café sitting alone or with his dog. Most of the time, I would just wave from a distance and leave him in his own world. As a writer, I understand how we feel to be solitary in crowded places with half-heard conversations, subdued laughter, music spewing from the tiny sound boxes screwed up on the roofs or vehicles honking in the streets. I would imagine him in conversation with his characters – a three-legged dog, an old woman, a black butterfly, a fat monk, an old-school man or a trash bin.

Traditionally, Tibetan culture shows little respect for musicians, dancers, painters, and performers. Some purists have even called artists nyonpa or crazies and their works genyik or trash. Once, JC told me that his response to those who look down upon creative artists was not to ‘react’ but to do what he wanted to do, i.e., to find infinite possibilities in mundane things. His creation of Genyik Studio in 2021 was one such response. It aimed to inspire young artists and to provide them with a platform for their works.

As one of the oddballs, he viewed the world through a different prism. In an artwork he created in October 2021, he wrote: “The art of un-trashing misfits and more.” In another piece, the Tibetan word གད་སྙིགས། or “trash” is written across the face of a traditionally attired man. One of the stickers he created has a double-pony-tailed girl with her tongue sticking out shouting, “Nyonpa chagsong nga!” (You’ve gone mad!)

JC’s long-term wish was to create a comic series for children and graphic novels for young adults. The drafts in his notebooks show storylines, concise artworks and character sketches. In late 2021, he had shared a small section from one of his future comic ideas on his social media. One of the pages featured three black butterflies hovering in the air with a hand holding a lit match in the below-right corner. On the top left, he wrote, “Lots of youngsters have left away from this earth or from someone.”

JC was one of the bright stars of a younger generation of Tibetan artists, who are creating artworks unbound by conventional dictum-centred themes and free from established Tibetan artists who are, to some extent, trapped in manifestations of thangka and, as a result, their creative energy is stifled by silhouettes of Buddha’s head and Mahakala’s arms.

JC and other young artists express their lived experiences through their creations. “I admire the works of older artists, but I don’t want to get stuck in Buddhist motifs,” said one artist based in Dharamsala. This group is passionate, hungry and angry too. Unnoticed by mainstream society and largely overlooked by galleries, they want to find their own path and their own style. JC was a fellow of this gang, and he could have done many exciting things. (His works were subsequently exhibited twice in Dharamsala, once in Kathmandu, and another group show is forthcoming later this year.)

Living in exile does not mean not dying. Each day, a little bit of us perishes in the dust of strange lands. But the physical death and its finality is a one-way path. JC would have loved to live long, to see his sister finish her school and go to college, to complete his comic series, to be a life-long member of the artists collective Khadhok or to sit quietly on a roadside to realise that life is both precious and insignificant.

In the afternoon of 12^th July, JC went to a nearby river with some of his friends, where he sat on a rock. I was told that he didn’t know how to swim. As they swam, he slipped. It wasn’t the stars that lifted him. It was the water of the swollen monsoon river that enveloped him and took him away. When they found him some distance downstream, he had gone to another world. He was twenty-six.

That evening, when I lifted his body from the van with three other friends, a deep void overtook me. Tears retreated into the ducts. Walking up the stairs, I felt the weight of his body and the immense sadness on my shoulders. I was angry, too, that the messenger of death found only a young, harmless artist to pounce on. Each step was a time without end, each breath a never-ending undertaking, and I felt life, death, youth, dream, art, expression, frustration and aspiration fused.

We placed his body on a bed, and the ngagpas recited prayers. Outside, the sun went down, and evening dawned. I read the astrological calculations to prepare for his final journey the next morning. His sketchbook was passed around among friends. When it came to me, I flipped through, and his future sparkled – the pages were filled with rough sketches of characters, storyboards, summaries, comic strips, and character studies.

I don’t want to ask what happens after death. All I know is that whatever realm he resides in, he would bring tranquillity, colours, and serene smiles.

JC was an artist, an aspiring poet, an amateur musician and an actor. Had he lived long enough, he would also have been a star.

Bhuchung D Sonam is a poet, writer and translator. His books include Songs from Dewachen and Yak Horns: Notes on Contemporary Tibetan Writing, Music and Film & Politics and Burning the Sun’s Braids: New Poetry from Tibet. He is a founding member of TibetWrites and its imprint, Blackneck Books. His writings are published in the Journal of Indian Literature, HIMAL Southasian, ASAHI Weekly and the Washington Post among others.