Page 39 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

Datshey dragged me to her classroom, the next day. “Uncle is here, Aunty.”
“Oh, shoo!” she said, waving her hands. “Go away!”
My cheeks and ears went red. “I am sorry for the trouble,” I said. “We won’t bother you anymore.”
Her cheeks went scarlet. “Don’t come, please,” she said, glancing around. “Tell your friend not to call me
Aunty.”
“Okay,” I said. “Don’t mind him, please. He is just teasing.”
But with time, the saga of Uncle and Aunty gained popularity among the students. Soon we became close friends
and we teased each other whenever we met.
“Hey, Aunty,” I raised my hand for a high five. “I adore you.”
“I am Nyingthenma.” She slapped my hand and said, “I adore you, too. Ha…ha…ha!”
“Nyingthenma?” I said, pleased with the name.
People gave us a real belly-laugh as we walked hand in hand, but I had no intention to propose to her. Seriously.
The inter-class English dance competition was next month. So, my class discussed music and dress with our class
teacher.
“White shirt and blue jeans would fetch better marks, sir,” said Dechen, a fat girl with blonde hair. “We’d look
gorgeous in them.”
“The black sweet would be better,” I said, raising my hand.
“What is sweet?” said Mr. K.N. Sharma, the class teacher, grinning.
“He is talking about the suit, sir,” said Dechen, wrinkling her nose.
The entire class burst out laughing. I blushed.
“You mean a blazer, like a jacket?” said Mr. K.N. Sharma. “Do you think you can arrange that?”
“No, sir,” said Dechen. “White T-shirts and blue jeans would do. And boys can wear a tie.”
“Do you agree with her?” said Mr. K.N. Sharma.
“Yes, sir,” said the class in unison.
“What about the music?” asked Mr. K.N. Sharma. “Dechen, do you have any idea?”
“My Heart Goes Shalala, sir,” she said. “Vengaboys.”
I shrugged, trying to figure it out. “Dechen, what’s Vengaboys?”
“Let’s do that,” she said, turning back at me. “That’s a nice song.”
I scratched my head. “Which one is the song? Shalala or Vengaboys?”
She guffawed. “Vengaboys is the name of the band. A group of singers. They are girls.”
“I see,” I said, nodding my head, still confused. “Let’s do that.”
After the vigorous practice for about two weeks, I went to my neighbors to borrow a pair of jeans. Nobody had
blue jeans that would fit me in. I knocked on the door of an account, who was of my height.
“Yes?” he said, leaning on the door.
“Sir, I want to borrow your blue jeans, please.”
“What for?” he said, puffing out the cigarette smoke.
“For class dance completion.”
“Wait here.” He brought bell-button jeans with a brass button instead of a zip. “Would this do?”
“Sure,” I said, grinning. “Thank you. I would return it after my dance competition.”
“Okay.”
The next day, over the loud spear, the Master of Ceremony announced, “X B, My Heart Goes Shalala. Please
come on stage.”
My heart thudded as the music floated across the hall. We began our moves. The first step needed us to keep our
hands on the head and do six steps of the catwalk, forward. A perfect synchronized move. Next step, I leaped and
wobbled my hips. Others squatted with their hands on their chest as the song shrilled out: “My Heart Goes
Shalalala....”
What an embarrassing mistake! The spectators laughed out their hearts, and some shouted at my name. “Uncle!”
I cringed when the result was announced over the loudspeaker.
“X B, with 25 points at second last.”
“Oops,” I blurted. “I will never dance for the rest of my life.”
Mr. K.N. Sharma said, “It’s okay, we’ll perform better next time.”
In the evening, I went to the accountant to return his jeans pants. “Thank you, sir, for lending me your jeans.”
“How’d it go?” he said.
“Sorry, my class stood second last.”
He guffawed as he puffed out the cigarette smoke. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
I stood gaping. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, you can keep it. I have extra jeans for myself.”

39