Page 23 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

“Nothing, Dad. Mild headache.”
“Tell me, what is it you want?”
“Um, I have a football match tomorrow,” I said, curling up to my knees. “But—”
His eyes narrowed. “But what?”
“I don’t have football boots.”
“Football boots?” he blurted. “Can’t you play barefoot?”
“No, Dad. My friends are playing in boots.”
He gazed at the door for a while and said, “How much does it cost?”
“Um, one hundred and fifty.”
“That’s expensive. What about canvas shoes?”
I beamed. “No problem, Dad. That would do.”
“Hope it is not expensive.”
“Only fifty ngultrums.”
“Come.” He took me to YANGKIMO GENERAL SHOP.
For a short-elated moment, I forgot everything—all the bitterness of the world that ruined my life. I frolicked
home with the shoes in my arms. Dad slogged after me with a lopsided grin on his half-wizened face.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I can’t wait to show them off to my friends.”
“But don’t bring troubles.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
At school, the captain said, “You got football boots, Dorji?”
“Yeah.” I showed him. “My dad bought them for me yesterday.”
He narrowed his brow. “These are canvas shoes. Boots have notes. See my cool boots?”
“As long as I am comfortable in them, I am okay with them.”
“Be on the ground before half an hour,” he said. “We must warm up.”
“Sure.”
All along with the tournament, we got through to the final.

***

In Autumn, the willow trees stretched their branches toward the sun-filled skies. As the breeze whispered
through their branches, leaves spiraled to the ground. The school gardens, adorned with assorted flowers, appeared
majestic. The bees sipped the nectar, and glorious butterflies fluttered their iridescent wings around. Gorgeous. I
sauntered around, sniffing the pleasant scent of the garden. And I smiled at the sparrows that chirped from the roof
beams.
“How I wish I were them.” I shuffled on the leaves further. “Eternal blissful life. No worries and nothing.”
But the school would be closed soon for the winter vacation. My friends jumped in glee to go home. In a sudden
paroxysm of enviousness, I leaned against the wall and burst into tears. “Gosh, I hate going to my village.”
One morning, Mr. B.N. Batarcharjee took us to the back of the school building for self-study. I lay on the
ground, remorseful for my life.
“Hey you, sit properly!” thundered Mr. B.N. Batarcharjee.
I sat up. “I am studying!”
“What did you say?” He stomped towards me, grasped my collar, and shook me hard. “How dare you?”
“Sorry, sir,” I said, stooping. “Just a slip of my tongue.”
“What good is sorry for?” He grasped my chest-collar and shook me again. “Huh? You contemptuous bastard.”
“I am not a bastard,” I said, glaring up at the face. “I have a father.”
“You rebellious boy,” he said and dragged me away. “Come.”
I thrust his hand away. “Let go off.”
He stepped back and glared at me and scurried into the staffroom.
Lopon—the most abominable teacher—walked into the class, the next period.
We rose. “Lopon kuzu Zangpo la!”
Lopon gawked at me from the corner of his eyes and thundered, “Sit.” He slammed his textbook onto the table.
“Dorji Wangdi?”
“Yes, Lopon,” I said.
“Come here.”
I trembled as I shuffled up to him.
He rose from the chair, rather awkwardly, and puffed. “How could you?”
“I am sorry, Lopon,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

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