Page 70 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

Boys snored, cuddling amongst themselves. I couldn’t. I gazed at the star-filled sky. It reminded me of the story
Granny had told me about the seven little brothers. “Which star could be the eldest brother?” I counted all the stars
twinkling in the plow-shaped galaxy. “And which one is the youngest? Which is which?”
They disappeared and then reappeared in the clear sky. As the crisp air caressed my hair, I gazed at them.
Yesterday was a dream, and tomorrow a mystery. Fear and terror gripped my life at that moment. Eyes closed, I
folded my hands and whispered prayers. “Lama la chabsu chhe, Sangay la chabsu chhoe, Choe la chabsu chhe,
Gaedun la chabsu chhe. Kabney dampa chhe la chapsu chhe!”
Footsteps woke me. It was still dark. I sat up and looked around. People were scurrying into the town.
“Boys, get up,” I said. “It’s time you caught the bus.”
We hurried after them. At the border gate, I shook their hands. “Safe journey, boys.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Boto, “for accompanying us.”
“You are welcome,” I said, watching them enter the bus. “Bye.”
Shoulders slumped, I traipsed back to the prayer wheel. A hotel next to the cinema was open. I stepped in and
said, “Is there a room?”
“Yes,” said the man at the counter. “Single or double.”
“How much for a single room?”
“Fifty.” He studied from head to toe. “Coming from?”
I glared. “Why are you staring? You got a problem with that?”
“No, I just—”
“I am clean,” I said, frowning. “Bhutanese, not anybody.”
“Key, please,” he said, placing it on the counter. “Room No. 102, upstairs.”
I didn’t care what went inside his mind. I just hankered for some peaceful sleep for the rest of the day. I hauled
my luggage from the prayer wheel and flung myself onto the bed.
My batches—Tashi, Parshu, and Sonam Gyeltshen—joined me after three days. We reported to the DEO, the
next day.
“Welcome to Samdrup Jongkhar Education Faculty,” said the District Education Officer.
We bowed. “Our pleasure, sir.”
“Everyone here?” He counted our heads. “Just the four of you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Others must be on their way.”
“Now listen,” he said, shifting his eyes to each of us. “Nganglam is a precarious place at the frontline. Stay alert.
Don’t mingle with the mutineers. Just mind your duty, understood?”
We exchanged glances and nodded.
“Fill in your service book,” he said.
We took more than half an hour to fill in our details.
He skimmed them one by one and said, “Okay. Anything else I can do for you?”
“What about the bus service, sir?” I asked.
“We have a truck transporting stationery to Nganglam. I’ll talk to the driver.” He phoned right away. “It’s
moving tomorrow, get ready.”
We bowed. “Thank you, sir. We’re ready.”
“Safe journey,” he said. “Stay away from insurgents.”
“We will,” we said. “Thanks for your concern.”
At the border gate the next morning, fifteen of us clambered onto the truck. The truck wobbled along the Assam
highway. The mid-day sun hooked its claws into my skin. And I gulped in the gushing wind and spluttered. After
about fifty miles, we passed through a small town and again hit the narrow road to the east. The countryside road
was untarred.
“Boys, hold tight,” said the driver, craning out of the window. “This is gonna be a long ride.”
The droning truck wallowed through the cloudy dust, crashing on the suspension. We held tighter to the rope.
We lurched from pothole to pothole. After three hours, it stopped on the outskirts of a small town. Tiny shifts with
thatched roofs lined the roadside. Local people sold local vegetables.
“This is Rangapani,” said an old man. “You should buy some vegetables. You won’t get at Nganglam.”
The driver honked after two minutes and we clambered onto the truck. We passed the forest check post and
entered the wilderness. Trees thickened, and the truck droned all along the gravel-surfaced road.
I glanced around. “Why is this place so spooky?”
The old man glanced around and said, “They shot down our kids there.”
“They shot down your kids? Who are they?”
“Local goons,” he said, pointing at the area of a swamp beside the road with a dead log popping up like a ghostly
arm. “They lined up the kids there.”

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