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“They tell me you’re sick. What do you need? Do you need to go to hospital?” I wondered if news of a sick person had traveled as quickly here before the mobile phone. Most likely, yes. A sick person was always cause for concern, particularly when it was a guest from afar.

“Thank you, sir. Really, I don’t need anything. But that’s not what I was calling you about. There’s a problem with the Symphony of Love …”

“I’m very busy now, Jane,” Sir Tenzin said as he carefully began to wrap up an afternoon hit of doma. I braced myself for the awful smell that was inevitable once he started sucking on it; I wasn’t sure my stomach could stand it just now. “Can’t you just take care of it?”

Sir Tenzin was like a lot of men I’d met over the course of my career, one of those “big picture” thinkers. Details were not his strong suit; ideas were. So was tossing out those ideas and commanding the staff to execute them. He loved the buzz the Symphony of Love was getting, loved the kudos around town, but had little interest in or worry about its execution. Unless he happened to tune in and hear someone say something he didn’t like—at which point he would roar into the station, yelling, correcting someone’s grammar or on-air performance.

“No, I’m worried about something and I need your help. I just found out that two of the three people in the finals for SOL … work for Kuzoo.”

It didn’t immediately register for Sir Tenzin that this posed any sort of problem. He looked like he was about to shrug and say “So what?” But my demeanor forced him to pause. He nodded for me to go on.

I reminded him of the series of anticorruption spots the government had been running in the newspapers and on the BBS, encouraging citizens to report any cronyism or swindling that appeared to be taking place.

“Sir Tenzin, they could make an example out of Kuzoo. Maybe the stakes aren’t as big, but the principle’s the same. And we’re going to look awfully stupid if the Bhutan Times takes issue with our own people winning the contest.”

The Symphony of Love, to no one else but me, was a living metaphor for the upcoming parliamentary election. (Whose exact date, like the king’s coronation, was still under review by royal astrologers.) A time to teach the youth not just about self-expression—creative and democratic—but also about right and wrong. If they thought it was okay to stack the deck in a contest involving love songs and hamburgers, well, who knew what would happen when they went to the voting booth?

Sir Tenzin understood. “Okay, okay, let’s have a meeting. You can explain.”

“But I need you to be there and back me up, sir.” As a volunteer and not their real boss, my reprimand might not hold as much weight. As soon as Sir Tenzin agreed, I excused myself so I could run down the stairs to the bathroom.

LATER THAT EVENING, the SOL team was shuttled into the conference room that had long ago served as a living area. That this building had once housed the foreign minister might suggest that it was once grand. There was, however, no indication that this was true. It was hard to imagine this was ever anything but a rumpus room for a youth-oriented radio station. Taped onto the wood paneling, opposite the portrait of the king, hung a giant yellow poster declaring Kuzoo’s mission statement. Its hand lettering added to the dorm-room feel:

We, the youth, must keep ourselves informed.

We should arm ourselves with the knowledge to make our own futures brighter.

Youth is temporary and fleeting but the foundations we build today will decide how bright the prospects will be for the rest of our lives.

Kuzoo aspires to be the voice of the youth of Bhutan.

Kuzoo aspires to inform the youth of Bhutan.

Kuzoo is the youth of Bhutan.

Kuzoo is ours; the future is ours.

A taped recording of that message, read by a sampling of Kuzoo’s most youthful volunteers, ran at the start of each broadcast day. No one seemed to be able to name the author of those words. I suspected