Page 18 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

His eyes blazed with anger but didn’t fight me. We exchanged long, steady glares, amidst puffs and pants. The
bout ended. As we dispersed, cries of disappointment from his supporters wafted across the air.
“I never thought you’d lose,” said Jaga. “That was the easiest thing in the world.”
I hobbled up the path, entered the dark entrance, and pushed open the door.
Curled up to his knees, Dad was gazing through the window in his profound thoughts. He turned to me. “Where
were you?”
“Out, playing with friends,” I said and removed the shirt. The bruise had turned blue. I gave a gentle massage to
it.
“What happened?” asked Dad.
“I fought.”
“You fought?”
I nodded.
“Again?” he blurted. “With whom?”
“With a friend.” I took out the Boroline ointment from the satchel and applied it to the contusion. “He started
it.”
Dad shot me a ferocious glare and slouched out.

***

A week later, the seven players of the upper town team assembled in the school ground for a discussion.
“We need uniforms for our team,” said the captain. “Orange shirt, what do you say?”
My teammates waved their hands in the air. “That’s terrific! Yippee!”
“How much for this?” I said.
“Fifteen,” said the captain.
Biting my bottom lip, I said, “I don’t think I can afford it.”
“You must get it,” said the captain. “Or I’ll look for someone who can afford it.”
“Please don’t. I would try to manage one.”
“You better get one.”
I slouched home with a heavy heart. Dad was conversing with a visitor. I flung my satchel to the corner and held
my chin.
“What happened?” asked Dad.
“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

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