Page 10 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

We hurried home. All along the way, I visualized my mom still panting in her bed. I hadn’t experienced the death
of my family members. Body trembling, I took a second to wonder what it’d be like to see my mom in stillness,
breathless, passed away. From a distance, I heard the cries of my granny and my heart thudded as I got closer to
home. I couldn’t believe it. No, she can’t leave us, I insisted in screaming thoughts.
Dad led me through the dark entrance. “Come,” he said.
“I can’t,” I replied, leaning against the door. “Oh, God!”
Dad dragged me inside and forced me to sit down near my mom.
I stared down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne me, nourished me, laughed with me, and loved
me. That moment, I felt the aura of misery tightening my heartbeat. I wanted with all my might but I couldn’t cry.
Gently, I removed the burial shroud from her face. Dear me. Her lifeless eyes were fixed on the ceiling and a streak
of hair had fallen across her cold and rubbery cheeks. She looked more content in death than ever in life. I hid my
face in my hands and sobbed, unable to believe she had passed away. “Oh, Mom! You can’t die. Please don’t leave
us.”
Butter lamps flickered above her head and cast elongated shadows on the walls. I couldn’t believe I was losing
such an angel. She had been a compassionate and beautiful mother. She helped the needy and did everything to ease
their problems.
At the break of dawn, my father woke us. “Let’s take the cadaver,” he said.
“Where, Dad?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he said. “We must take it away before people see us.”
He carried Mom’s body on his back through the alley. Soon we wobbled up a hill covered with waist-high
grasses. Except for the rustle of leaves, nothing stirred.
“Light the butter lamp,” said Dad.
I lit a small butter lamp and placed it above Mom’s head. The smell of incense and the chanting of the layman
reminded me of the transient life. “Dear me, life is too short,” I muttered.
Dad’s colleagues and the bank manager visited us in the afternoon.
The manager patted Dad’s shoulder. “Sorry about your loss. Our deepest condolences, Mr. Phugay.”
Dad sat tight-lipped. People walked up to him and offered their condolences, but Dad neither spoke nor raised
his head. He sniffled.
“Have you arranged the astrologer?” asked the bank manager.
“Yes,” said Dad.
“What was divination?”
“Water burial,” said Dad. “We can’t cremate the body.”
“I will arrange the transportation,” said the bank manager. “Where do you want to take the cadaver to?”
“I think we should take it to Kurichhu, Dasho,” said Dad.
“Fine,” said the bank manager. “I will be back soon.”
In the afternoon, they lifted the coffin onto the back of the yellow Land Rover truck.
“Bye, Mom,” I said. “May you be reborn in our family soon.”
I dragged my brothers as the truck barreled down the road. It disappeared in the distance soon.
“Where are they taking our mom?” asked Phub Dorji.
“To a faraway place,” I said. “We will never see our mom from today.”
Why?”
“She left us,” I said. “Forever.”
Tashi Wangchuk, the youngest, wailed. “Mom! Boohoo!”
I knelt and embraced them, sniffling.
Nothing remained of her now, not a photo to remind us of her. Dad and Grandpa returned in the evening.
Grandpa leaned against the door and sobbed. Poor grandpa. Mom was his one and the only daughter. He sobbed
more when people stared at him.
“Come, grandpa,” I said. “Stop crying now.”
Butter lamps flickered as we all sat and mourned her. I gazed at the empty corner Mom used to groan. The pain
was too much to bear, so I covered my face in my hands and sniffled.
“We’ll conduct her rites in the village,” said Grandma. “What do you say, son-in-law?”
Dad paused sobbing. “That seems convenient,” said Dad. “We can’t conduct the rites here.”
Three days later, we boarded the bus. Grandma sprinkled rice along the way, and up onto the bus. “Follow us
home, Uchi. Come with us.”
“What is she doing, Dad?” I asked.
“Grandma is calling Mom’s spirit,” he said.
“Is it necessary?”

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