Page 11 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

“We must take the spirit back home,” he said. “It’s our culture.”
After the 21st-day rite, Dad and I returned to our place. We kept Phub Dorji and Tashi Wangchuk back in the
village with grandparents.
Before we left, I pecked them on their faces and said, “Bye, my brothers. Don’t go to the riverside, and obey
grandpa and grandma, okay?”
They sniffled.
“I will come in the winter vacation,” I said.
Two weeks later, Dad said, “I must go home for Mom’s 49th-day rite. You will attend school from Tashi Ama’s
place, okay?”
“Who is Tashi Ama, Dad?” I asked.
“She is Mom’s best friend,” he said. “She is a kind lady.”
“How long would you take, Dad?”
“I will come back after the 49th-day rite is over.”
Three weeks later, Dad returned from the village. He knelt and hugged me.
“What’s the matter, Dad?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“Tashi Wangchuk passed away, son!” he said.
“What?” I knelt. “Did you say Tashi Wangchuk—”
He nodded. “Tashi Wangchuk passed away!”
I wriggled on the floor. “Oh, my dear little brother!”
“I am sorry, son,” he said. “I couldn’t save him.”
“Wangchuk, my dear brother,” I cried. “Please come back!”
Tashi Wangchuk was only five. I couldn’t believe fate took him away at his pubescent stage. I cherished the
moments I had spent with him. We would scavenge trash bins and pick half-rotten fruits from the gutters.
Sometimes, we would pilfer cookies from the shops.
As I laughed, I tasted my tears in loneliness, even in the crowd. When I stayed with friends, I wished to be alone,
and when alone, I wanted company. I missed my little brother every day.
One evening, I chatted with Dad. “Dad, what happened to Mom?” I asked. “What caused her death?”
His teary eyes turned into a fierce glare, and he clenched his teeth. “Black magic.”
“What? Black magic?”
“He too would die one day,” he said. “He will suffer.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t have to know. I’ll tell you later. I repent for Mom’s great loss. She had fine qualities.”
“What happened to Tashi Wangchuk?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but his whole body swelled,” he said, “and he bled from his mouth and nose.”
“My poor brother.” Tears replenished my eyes. “What’d you do with his body?”
“Dead bodies of children under eight are forbidden to cremate,” he said. “So, we carried out the water burial.”
“Water burial?” I wiped off the tears. “Which river?”
He stopped sniffling and cleared his throat. “Gamri.”
“Which spot?”
“Samtorong.”
In winter, I visited Samtorong below the village. The sound of the gushing river brought agony to my heart. The
closer I walked, the faster my heart thudded. I pressed my chest and said, “Why my little brother, God?”
As I neared the riverbank, his musical laughter echoed into my ears. Birds soared above my head and chirped,
flapping their wings. Except for the sound of the gushing river, the surroundings remained serene. I climbed a rock
and watched the river flow downstream. Bubbles buoyed as the fast-flowing water filled the rapids. And the breeze
caressed my face. I missed my little brother more. I rested my chin on my palms and gazed at the cerulean sky. “If I
could build stairs to heaven, I would visit you.”
I cherished the time my brothers and I strolled into the town. We walked along a gutter clogged up with garbage.
Maggots squirmed in a long stretch of the murky water. A ripe mango that lay beside the gutter tempted me. I
slobbered, so I tried to pick it. But the pedestrians walked around. We waited and the moment the street became
empty, I picked it.
“Hurry,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
We scurried to the water tap and washed the mango. Standing at the dimly-lit entrance, we licked the mango in
turns.
“Where’d you get it?” asked Dad. “Let me see.” He peered at it. “It’s rotten. Wait here.” He returned with Mom.
“See? They’re eating rotten fruit.”
“Let me see it,” said Mom, snatching the mango from me. “Where’d you get that, Dorji?”

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