Page 24 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

“Nothing,” I said, glancing at the guest over my shoulder.
“Tell me,” he said. “Something is not right.”
I looked through the window and said, “Later, Dad.”
“Okay, Mr. Phugay, I’ll come tomorrow,” said the guest. “See you.”
Dad threw him a smile. “Bye.” He turned to me. “What’s the matter?”
“Um, I—”
“What? Tell me.”
“I joined a football team, Dad,” I said. “And we decided to—”
“To play football?”
“Yes,” I said, “but we need a set of uniforms.”
“So?”
I scratched my head. “So, I must buy a shirt.”
“A shirt?”
I nodded.
“How much for that?”
“At Yangkimo’s General Shop,” I said, “only fifteen ngultrums.”
Dad shook his head and said, “I don’t think she’d give on credit.”
“Let’s try, Dad,” I said.
Our excitement evinced in our flamboyant jerseys. The orange T-shirt had a smiley brown teddy bear
holding a lollipop on the front. We wrote the numbers of our own. On the pitch, the jerseys looked glitzy
but the numbers in unique shapes and colors. And we staked bets. If we won, we had a noodle party in the
open space. Merry-going childhood days.
One day, I got an invitation letter from my old buddy, Tshewang Rinzin, who had left for his village
school. Putala was his epithet. The handwriting was nasty, but the address was right. It was the first letter
of my life. Smoke-smudged paper inside the self-made envelope. In an eagerness to read the letter, I ripped
the envelope open. I guffawed and read it twice. So much care and so much love from my village friend.
But I couldn’t go to play as we had split the team. I didn’t get a letter from thereafter.

***

In his mid-forties, Ap Sangay’s hair had turned gray. He chewed on betel leaves like a goat ruminating
grass. He smudged the lime on window frames, doors, columns, and everywhere his hand could lie on.
That irked me. And I hated his frequent visit to our place.
It was early in the morning when he flung open the door. “What’s up, Mr. Phugay?” he said.
Dad startled and edged away on the bed. “Fine. Come, please.”
He settled down next to Dad. “Mr. Phugay, there’s something I should ask. Why don’t you remarry?”
“I can’t,” said Dad. “It’s not even three years since my wife has passed away.”
“Remarry?” I blurted, frowning.
Ap Sangay gave me prowling eyes. “Sorry, kid, not meant to offend you.”
“I am not a kid, for your information,” I said. “I’m twelve, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He scowled and turned back to Dad. “Tell you what, three years have passed, but nothing has changed
in your life. Problems aggravated. You need someone to help with the household chores, Mr. Phujay.”
“I can’t,” said Dad. “My kids are still young.”
“Kids are suffering, too,” he said. “They need a mother to take care of.”
Dad shook his head, glancing at me.
I glared at Ap Sangay. I was old enough to fathom step-mothers played a witch’s role in kids’ lives.
A few days later, he returned with another matchmaker. “Mr. Phugay, we arranged a woman for you.”
24