Page 137 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

I nodded, though his consolation didn’t assuage my trepidation.
“Ama, I am taking our luggage to the guest house.”
She looked around the room full of unfamiliar people. “Are you coming back?”
“I will be back soon.”
I went to the lobby to meet Mr. Gembo. “Sir, I need to go to the guest house?”
“My niece will take you to the Bhutan guest house,” Mr. Gembo, turning back. “Seday, please take him
there.”
A lean woman with a square face drooped her shoulder as she shuffled after us.
Mr. Gembo rolled the suitcase along the ramp to the roadside. “Rickshaw?”
The rickshaw man stopped beside us.
“Get on,” said Mr. Gembo. “Seday, come back soon.”
She nodded and got on the rickshaw. “Bhutan Guesthouse chalo, bhaiya.”
As the rickshaw man pedaled up along the roadside, Seday heaved a deep sigh. And she blinked,
stooping low.
“I heard your mom is in the ICU,” I said.
She nodded. “In critical condition.”
“Don’t worry, madam. It would take time to recover.”
“It’s been two months now. I don’t think she will recuperate.”
“Have faith in God, please. She will be fine.”
“Wish it was a different problem!” He took a deep breath. “Oops, I am stressed out.”
I sat in silence.
The journey took over twenty minutes. The guest house was on the second floor and had four spacious
rooms. Three spacious rooms were empty.
“Which room do you want to occupy?” she asked.
I chose the room with a bathroom attached. “This should do. I am sleeping here.”
In the kitchen, an electric oven and a rice cooker with a detached lid lay on the chair. The plug point
was half-charred.
“Are there mosquitoes around here?” I said, shutting the window glass.
“Yeah,” she replied. “We use Mortein, but we stay in the hospital most of the time.”
Her phone buzzed.
“Yes, Uncle?” she said. “Okay.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s my uncle. He told me to come fast.”
We walked up to the road point and stopped a rickshaw.
“What does your uncle do?” I asked.
“RBG,” she replied.
“What’s RBG?”
“Royal Body Guard. He is Colonel.”
I gaped. “Colonel?”
Colonel was in the lobby, reading a newspaper. “How is the guest house?” he asked.
“Fine, Dasho,” I said.
“AMRI hospital has rented for Bhutanese patients.”
“Oh, really? How considerate of this hospital.”
“Sit, please. You don’t have to respect me. We’re all the same here.”
I sat beside him on the couch. “Thank you, Dasho.”
“What did the surgeon say?”
I covered my mouth, bending a little low. “He said he would conduct a test, Dasho.”
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