Page 28 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

After a mile, Sherab waved to me from the roadside. He was a down-to-earth guy, with feminine
personality. “Stop, please.”
I applied the brake, and my bike stopped far down. “What?”
“Can I ride with you, please?”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I said. “It doesn’t—”
“Please, Dorji.”
“The brakes don’t function well.”
He beamed with excitement. “I will use my foot.”
“That’s too risky,” I said. “I can’t take you, okay?”
He sat on the top-tube. “Let’s go. Yippee!”
“At the backseat, please.”
“I am okay here,” he said. “Now drive.”
Tsiku called out to us from far down. “Hey, Dorji. Drive along.”
“Coming!” I pedaled down the road as fast as my legs could. “Hold on tight, Sherab. We are racing.”
I tried to catch up with Tsiku. The meandering road inclined, and after the hairpin bend, we overtook
Tsiku and hit the steep road. The crisp wind whipped my face and adrenaline pulsed through me. Sherab
gulped down the air as his spiky hair fluttered in the wind. I braked, but the speed remained the same.
“Hell, no!” I said to myself. “I am dead.”
Sherab hunched in exhilaration. “Yahoo! It’s cool.”
Nothing came to my mind, only the death approaching. I clenched my teeth and applied the brakes
hard again. The front brake-pads snapped. “I am dead now.”
A puddle-brown Land Cruiser rumbled up from the opposite direction, bellowing acrid smoke. At that
moment, it seemed like a red-eye bull galloping to gore us to death. “God, I am definitely dead now!”
“Car,” said Sherab. “Brake!”
I shut my eyes, steered the handle to the right, and lifted it. It plunged into the culvert. Sherab fell onto
the bicycle and I landed on him.
He winced. “Ouch! My leg.”
A man with half-grayed hair peeped down at us. “You okay, kids?”
“Yeah, fine,” I said, dusting my shoulder.
He stared at Sherab. “And you, kid?”
Sherab grinned. “I am fine, la.”
“How’d it happen?” he said.
I cringed my face as my shoulder thudded in pain. “Over-speeding.”
“Drive cautiously, kid,” he said. “You almost hit my car.”
“Sorry, la,” I said. “We will.”
The moment the car left, Sherab squirmed on the road. “Ouch, my legs! Mom! Dad!”
“You moron, stop whining,” I said, lifting the bicycle from the culvert. “Oh, no! The handlebar is
twisted.”
Sherab paused whining. “What?”
“The handle—it’s twisted.” I picked a stone and hit the bent part of the handlebar. “Lend me a hand,
would you?”
“What happened?” said Tsiku from behind.
“Accident,” said Sherab. “He almost killed me.”
Tsiku rolled his eyes. “What happened to the bicycle?”
“The handlebar is bent,” I said.
“This is not cool, man,” he said.
“What was I supposed to do? Kill ourselves to save this darned bicycle of yours?”
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