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Not long after, my whirlwind marriage was through.

IT WASN’T UNTIL I was forty—thirteen years after the split, in the throes of my life review—that I began considering what a mistake it had been to let that marriage go. Over the years, I’d rarely discussed it, even with people who knew me back then. The whys and particulars of how it came to be and how it came apart were easier not to reveal to newer people in my life. To say, “I got married in reaction to having been raped,” required the disclosure of layers of personal history, and now I wasn’t even sure if the way I’d interpreted my history was true. What a good and patient partner he was; what an excellent father he would have been. I was wiser than I’d realized in having chosen him.

But I understood now the youthful haze of mistaking desire for love and the foundations of a lasting partnership. That eagerness to move on with life, to rush into the future, lock things down, the false sense of feeling that by moving quickly, you’re taking control of your destiny.

And so I understood as I watched Ngawang rush into marriage. She’d gotten her American adventure out of her system; it hadn’t quite worked out the way she’d planned. Perhaps in uniting with Mr. Japan, she was reacting to the disappointment of not having achieved one of her dreams. Now she was ready for the next thing. I hoped her impetuousness would yield a different outcome than mine had.

NGAWANG HAS COMMANDEERED her fellow radio jockey Kencho to pick me up at the airport in Paro. Kesang the Kuzoo driver is busy, and Mr. Japan is at work. I know I must be an honored guest because Kencho and Ngawang hate each other, so I’m flattered that they’ve made peace long enough to take this drive together, all because of me. Arriving in Bhutan for the third time in a year and a half now seems ridiculously normal. I remind myself not to mistake the familiarity for true understanding. I have a much better sense now of Bhutan, but I still know better than to presume I really understand this place. The mystery keeps me coming back.

Kencho’s happy I’m here to help out again with Kuzoo, because he doesn’t care for the new boss who has replaced Sir Pema, now that he’s gone off to his studies in Thailand. Ngawang doesn’t like the new lady, either, but she’s preoccupied with the details of moving into Mr. Japan’s house. The monks have given the okay for this to take place later in the week. It’s all very matter-of-fact. Ngawang getting married after disappearing for a while. Me breezing in from halfway around the globe, resolved not to demand answers about the past. I’m more concerned with what is happening with her right now; I ask Ngawang point-blank as we start to drive.

“Are you expecting a baby?”

Her response is calm and measured. “Maybe,” she says, as if it’s no big deal. “We’re going to the doctor tomorrow.”

On the ride from Paro back to Thimphu, my two friends compete like little kids for my attention, talking over each other with their stories, but I can’t help tuning them both out. The roadwork is complete, the drive shorter and far less death-defying than before. Or is it just that I’m more comfortable here? It’s mid-July, and monsoon season, and it’s just started to rain. Kencho could have a new career as a New York City taxi driver; he’s barreling down the highway at great speed, navigating past the other traffic and the cows and crouching humans. The magnificent palette of green on view in the summertime distracts me, and Kencho interrupts his monologue to turn Kuzoo on full-blast. A taped report he prepared about Gross National Happiness is about to air. To help quantify the concept to the outside world, an index has been released that aims to allow other nations to measure the happiness of their citizenry. Who needs such a scale? I think. By now, I’ve learned that the ingredients for happiness are simple: giving, loving, and contentment with who you are.

IT ISN’T UNTIL the next day that I meet the mysterious Mr. Japan, whose monk-given name is Sonam Penjor. He’s a tall man, big, with a sweet, solid