I don’t like my daughter’s story

Monday, December 26, 2011

Kids are wonderful and full of fun. They represent 50% of a parent. And my 50% has learned a story which her father does not like.

Upon reaching home, the 3.3 year old was excited to narrate a story to me. I knew it must be from her favourite cartoon serial Chhota Bheem. Few times she told me the scenes from the cartoon over a pillow. According to her, she was the queen Indra Muti and I am Jagu, the talking monkey. I claimed I was Chhota Bheem but she had already tagged it to her uncle. And I remained Jagu in almost all the stories she told me so far. I don’t mind being a monkey as far as her other 50% (my wife) does not call me that. I am lucky I am not even ‘pig’ although I would not mind being that especially for this blog.

“Daddy, I want to tell you a story, about four friends,” my daughter screamed.
“I am Chhota Bheem,” I said not even looking at her but concentrating fully on loosening the shoe laces.
She looked irritated. But it was timely I had to tell her the news of eating out in the town. And it sure made her happy. “We are going out for a dinner,” I said.
“Really? Hurray!” she exclaimed and hurried off to hug her aunty. My wife was watching us. I locked her eyes, “It was I who announced that news and why hug her aunt?”
“Zalu,” wife said hinting it does not matter whoever our daughter hugs.
“At 8 O’Clock,” I said.

And at 8 O’Clock, we got into the car and went to the town. Not finding a table in Rice Bowl, we went closer to Tandin hotel. At the first tread of steps, my daughter took my hand from her aunt.
“Ani told me a story,” she got back to the old tale.
“I am Chhota Bheem,” I said.
“Not that. It is about four friends,” she persisted.
“I am Chhota Bheem,” I persisted again which irritated my wife.
“Zalu,” she whispered.
“It is about Elephant and....four friends, Ani told me today.” I was happy to hear that.

On the second landing, we reached the lobby and in the wall I saw the paintings of four friends; elephant on the ground supporting other three friends to pluck a fruit. I smiled happily at her attempt of narrating similar story to Chhota Bheem.

“OK, go on,” I said. She saw the paintings too. She smiled a mischievous smile and did not utter a word. I coerced her to continue the story.
“Elephant and who are the other three friends?”
“Hehe, elephant and bird and rabbit and.........”
“And?” I knew she would speak it. She knows how monkey looks.
After a brief pause, she spoke and that made me hate her story.
“And Ugyen Gyeltshen,” she said.

If I have to become monkey anyways, I better be a talking Jagu than the monkey from the wild jungle. Becoming Chhota Bheem the hero became a farfetched dream.
“Let’s go inside and find out the table to eat,” I said and dragged her to the restaurant hall.

“Zalu,” I heard my other half whisper from behind.


Monday, December 12, 2011

“Driver Sahib, how are you? Life has become so slow, I wish I can be your handy boy, hehe” she wrote.
“Come come, I will be glad to have you in every turning of road,” I typed
“Wolo, this is impossible. Can you really do it?” she replied.
“I will try reaching Trashigang but doubtful after that” I
“Haha, then who will drive towards Samdrup Jongkhar? Anyway what are you doing now? It is pretty cold today” she.
“I am sipping beer” I.
“Thu thu” she.
I have learned to understand her style of chatting in Dzongkha. She always types in speaking tone. Example: “sonn sonn” for “go go”, “mee yon” for “not coming”

And “thu thu” is equivalent to “thung thung” for “drink drink”

“Wai, 'thu' is a profane word in my mother tongue” I.
“OMG, I did not mean that” she.
“It is okay, thu can be a nice changpa with beer” I.
“Haha, can you taste it?” she.
“It is inside the bottle, trying to fish it out. Wait, I am almost reaching it” I.
“Deah, you and your chann paa” she.
“One question” I.
“What?” she
“Did you taste it before?” I.
“Yuck, forget it nem” she.
“Another question” I.
“Aww, what now?” she.
“How is your changpa? The one I am having is over cooked and very dark” I.
“Hey, change the topic. eirihsknf aifjasfljfsasfkaj, decode this” she.
“OK, sorry sorry, 59209490829059472093459, but first decode this” I.
“Deah, you are difficult, wait, I also got the beer, cheers man” she.
“Cheers” I.
“Wow, very refreshing” she.
“Ok, same here, thung thung. Ahem can I ask one last question? I.
“What?” she
“How does it taste? Your changpa?”

She did not reply after that.

(An imaginative piece rejected at other sites.)

"Construction" isn't a difficult word

Sunday, November 27, 2011

When I saw the tender notification on BBS, I could not help noticing a spelling mistake. It is not that I don’t often see it but I have always chosen to stay silent without ever criticizing the authors because I too make mistakes, more than anybody else.
This particular error interested me because I have used this word right from the college days and more frequently in the work. In all these years, I have never by mistake typed wrongly. And haven’t come across such error committed by the novice petty contractor corresponded to any of his employers so far. 
The word was supposed to be ‘Construction’ which got distorted to ‘Cinstruction’. Man, I laughed at it. Am I sorry? Why should I. Had it been ‘aluminium’ for ‘aluminum’, I would not put up in this blog. If someone reasoned out the error due to the proximity of letter ‘I’ to ‘O’, then so is letter ‘U’ to ‘I’. If spelling mistakes make people puke, consider I puked that time.

Highlanders almost became the terrorists

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The men plan during weekdays with great enthusiasm on the strategies to attack while meeting with the opponents. And on weekends the men mostly land up defending more than attacking the other half. It is understandable to lose in the game of football. But win or lose, it brings us together week in and week out analysing from the fading memories against the emptying bottles.
The team we are in is called as the Highlanders, not that we have the Brokpa ingenuity but is just as old as the invention of Highland Whiskey. The decade old Highlanders could have progressed far better in the pitch if the likes of Highland whiskeys have not been the companions every weekend. By the time bottle took shelves in the bars and restaurants, the scotch had already begun running in our systems and reached the heights to become the team’s name.
Although many interesting as well as weird things happen when we meet off and on the pitch, the recent happening was right after the arrival of our jerseys from the United States. All of us hurried off to Bhutan Post right after the match. We collected the parcel from the counter and took few steps before each one of us decided to open it. And thus, we sat on the plinth-protection of Bhutan Post taking out the highly priced shirts, shorts and socks. Few customers of BNB and Bhutan Post mistook us as the street vendors and started to flock around us. They left us apologising but many thought we could have profited by few hundreds more.
“I like the color,” commented Python seeing the dark blue jerseys.
“It will look nice on you,” Gangchap replied. He continued, “Anything dark in color should match your skin.”
“Witch and Demand will look outstanding then,” Python said.
“So will be Dophu and Zhazha,” Gangchap said.
“Everyone will look nice,” Zhazha giggled.
“The color is perfect, imperfect is our skin,” Namguy declared. Witch overheard the conversation and before he realised the teammates would comment on him, he said, “Thanks to the sunburn.” Everyone concentrated on trying out the shirts and shorts leaving the blame on to the sun.
“We should print our names,” Thar said.
“Yes, we should,” Pele joined in.
“We don’t call by names in the ground,” Dophu reasoned out. “We should print what we are called by.”
“I don’t think that is a nice idea,” Sexy said.
“Me neither,” Python, Witch and Demand replied almost together.
“I will go with the majority,” Namguy said feeling comfortable not having a nick. (That does not guarantee in the future)
“I second Namguy,” Tobs said laughing.
Then, Witch did not find it right. He said it would not be nice to have those names on our backs and said he had the better idea. We listened what he had to say. He started with the technical speech.
“It is the 4-4-2 formation and we should pair up with the names,” he lectured.
“What are we going to print?” Python asked.
“We print the names of our girlfriends,” Pele exclaimed excited. No one showed interest in his proposal and that was understandable. Witch instantly looked sad reminiscing how did not have girlfriend throughout his life. Pele, with lots of hope looked at Thar but met with the saddened eyes. Dophu looked lost, the expression clearly stating if only the names of our wives could go to print.
The names of the girls didn’t reach our backs. Pele was disappointed but felt pity on us. He said, “Sorry guys, teamwork does not come in getting the girls.” Someone had hit him hard on his bum. It was Namguy. If it was done out of jealousy, I wanted to hit Pele too but then so would anyone.
Witch scratched his head and exclaimed, “Terrorists”. Everyone looked at him like he was the terrorist. “How about writing the terrorists’ names?” The idea was intriguing that attracted our immediate attention.
“I am in,” I said thinking on the terrorist option than letting people know I did not have a girlfriend.
“Interesting.” It was Thar. He wanted to choose being terrorist too.
“It will be in accordance to 4-4-2 formation,” Witch skewed.
“How is that?” Python asked.
“Very simple - one striker will be Saddam and other will be Hussein,” Witch explained. Sexy and Namguy coughed uncomfortably. They are the strikers. “Two wingers will be Vera and Pan. Two mid fielders will be Osama and Bin Laden and four defenders are shared by Hassan Izz Al Din.”
“I am Vera or Pan. Which one do you want, Demand?” Zhazha, the left winger asked.
“You have the preference,” Demand said without thinking on a choice. “I would be a terrorist in anyways.”
The two wingers however closely associated by the names would make less difference as both of them are at the either ends of the fields. Both have weak legs to change the course of game by passing long balls to either side. When Zhazha struggles with the ball in the left, Demand enjoys watching the struggling Zhazha from the right. It is the similar case when Python or Thar in the mid accidentally slips the ball towards Demand in the right.
“We will do the lucky dip,” Zhazha said and Demand agreed to it. But the disagreement occurred in the mid. Python was adamant on avoiding Bin Laden. He thought Osama was lesser terrorist of the half. Thar thought the same.
The four defenders looked puzzled. No one had heard about Hassan Izz Al Din and it made them difficult to choose.
“Is he a terrorist?” Dophu asked.
“It sounds like ‘Aladin’ to me,” Gangchap replied.
“I don’t like any of the name. And no one is sure if it is the name of the terrorist,” Pele said. “If only you guys are smart enough to have girlfriends.”
“Shut up Pele,” I retorted much to the comfort of other ten men.
Tobs stayed silent throughout. The goalie did not seem to enjoy such names.  So far no one was able to come up with a terrorist’s name for him. Perhaps he was unhappy because of it. Python assured to tag him with the famous name.
“Don’t worry mate, I will google out for you.”
“No mate, I don’t find it right. Most of them are deceased,” Tobs said sentimentally.
“Terrorists don’t deserve your commotion,” Python explained.
“I am not sad for them and I won’t ever be. I am not sure if Saddam Hussein was a terrorist.” Tobs explained.
Two strikers Namguy and Sexy suddenly looked active but were uncertain if they were sad not being terrorists.
“And who is Hassan Izz Al Din? Sounds like Kamal Hassan to me,” Gangchap broke out with the humour.
Everyone laughed and it meant Highlanders were not to become terrorists.
Zhazha looked at the group of ladies passing by. He wished the ladies perceived them as the street vendors and came to see the garments. When he saw the ladies avoiding them he thought it was the right decision seeing his friend in the dark blue shirt. Oversized Python was feeling his pot-belly with the skin-tight shirt.
When undersized and thin Pele put on the shirt, everyone knew how much damage Highland had done to the Highlanders. The men dispersed to the printing shop feeling happy on the color but definitely not on the skin-tight fabric that was only going to exaggerate the size of bellies. And dropping out to print the terrorists’ names was felt as the wisest decision taken by everyone.

I was following the eyes of Zhazha admiring the beauties of those long legs disappearing from us when Sexy brought me back, "What are you thinking, Khongtsa?" You seem to be lost, are you writing about it?"

"Writing? On what?" And then I knew what I should be typing on the microsoft word.

She almost guessed the password right

Friday, September 2, 2011

A friend of mine blatantly accused me of being irresponsible. According to her, I am ruthless not to leave
comments on this blog. She said I have to be courteous to thank the commentators or explain on any
dubious remarks for better understanding and to maintain cordial relationships with the bloggers.
Well, she is my good friend and also the wife of my best friend. I never remember a conversation where
it ended without making cynical remarks to each other. I have always loved her wit and intelligence.
At the time of this accusation, her husband was a meek listener only showing signs of irritation from
getting disturbed in between his beer.
“What is your reason for it?” she repeated.
“I don’t have one,” I said.
“Don’t give that shit. You think you are a great blogger to overlook readers.”
“I did not say that,” I answered.
“You should learn from other people and see how they interact with the readers. Readers are writers as
well.” She went on.
“I am neither any,” I said submissively.
“I know that,” she laughed. “You are such a crap.”
“I am your friend,” I tried to link her as another crap too.
She looked at her husband who was least interested to look back at her. As if he understood she would
comment on cutting out his drink, he found his way to join with her. He said, “You can comment on
behalf of him.”
His question took her by surprise. I only heard her murmuring ‘as if I can’.
“You can,” I said.
“No way,” said she.
“Fine,” I cut it out.
“Give her the password man,” her husband dropped in.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why? You scared now?” she barged in.
“Scared? No ways.” I said.
“Just I can’t.”
“Common,” she pushed very hard for several times.
The password came to my mind and immediately laughed on the thought. She looked irritated.
“What’s so funny?” she questioned.
“Not you,” I laughed. Her husband joined me though I did not know why he had to laugh. May be he did
just to make her feel clumsy.
“What’s funny then?” she nagged.
“The password,” I said. “It is funny.”
“What is it?”
“You may not want to hear it.” I laughed out loud.
“Break the balls,” she shouted.
“Almost near,” I said.
“Balls is your password?” she shrugged.
I wanted to change the topic of conversation but clever friend caught me by the hook. She showed
interests in knowing my password.
“Is it ‘scrotum’ or ‘an anus’?” she carelessly went on guessing. I saw her husband concentrating on his
beer. I remained silent.
“Or is it ‘penis’?” Her husband lost interest in his beer. He looked at her.
“Very near,” I said firmly controlling the hysteric hormone inside me.
I could no more control my muscles. I let out a huge whooshing breath and laughed out really loud.
“Ah, I got it now, it is Long. Pathetic password.” She said. Indeed she was right but only half.
“God! This man is insane,” she remarked feeling disgusted.
“Told you it was not what you would want to hear it,” I said.
“Ha ha ha, Long, nice password, short and sweet,” her husband said excited. “But why it is not Sharang man? Long Sharang?.......ha ha ha”
“Indeed it is that one man,” I said.
“Arrgghh, sick and pathetic,” she exclaimed.
“Do you want to log in now?” I asked.
“No ways, excuse me,” she croaked.
“Thanks,” I giggled.
I was not sure whether she would open this blog now that she knew the password. Somehow I felt it was not right to moderate by her. The password was naughty and that had the advantage of remaining in her head for longer time. I wanted to change it and thought of another one. And to make her lost with the clues I thought of harder ones. Hard and strong passwords were hard to come by and I chose the simpler one. If she attempts randomly she might get it right but I wonder if she would dare to think of this – L**gKatang.

Discovering myself big

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The proverb ‘never marry a woman with big feet’ has to come to my mind while squatting in the toilet when I think of how ‘big things’ matter in life.

Elbows on the knees, palms supporting the head and my mind wondering on the trivial things, I learn that every person likes owning something big.

My friend possesses iphone which is not only expensive but has a bigger size. I swoon my head when a big light-vehicle zooms past me, those behind the wheels with bigger shades covering one-third of their faces. In the workplace, there is always a street knowledge of other people of who posses what. The topic on men with the bigger plots and several buildings never tire the gossipmongers. The later categorizes the earlier as ‘big people’.  Even they want to be included in the list if given the chance.

At the halfway of wandering thoughts, although I cannot conclude if bigger things really matter to people, I make stock of what bigger things I have with me. I find nothing big with me; small phone, small car and without land or building, I am way content of what I have.

But I am a human being too and the temptation to own bigger things may come sooner or later. I can perhaps switch to an iphone when I know the price of Maruti van will not fetch Land Cruiser Prado and forget owning a land or to construct a house.

Almost bitterly, I stand up from the commode, push on the flush button and bend down to pull up my pants. The morning sun rays have brightened up the compact tiled closet. It guarantees a beautiful day ahead.

At the stage of zipping up, I stop and take a second glance. And I glance and I stop completely, the pants falling down on the floor. Next I am amazed to discover it. I already feel a beautiful day has come and every bigger thing the big people have suddenly becomes immaterial to me anymore.

I come out happy I have something big with me, in fact quite big, wondering why I did not take notice of it before. Now I don’t care if those gossipmongers don’t talk about me but I understand absolutely if I am confronted by a woman with the bigger feet. 

P.S: Nothing is exaggerated.

To self enlightenment

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

On the ‘first sermon of Lord Buddha’ what better day to feel stupid and think stupid. At least I went to Tandin Nye and erased the guilt of spending free time. But mostly, thanks to the road that reached to the door step. Otherwise I could have wasted another auspicious holyday snoring over the pillow. However, I will never have the guilt whenever I see Tandin Gompa from anywhere in Thimphu. It was a nice day but this is not what I am attempting here. Stupid man never writes good things especially on the important day.

Keeping aside all the nicest things I just saw few hours ago in the little temples and behind the rocks, my mind is agitated with the ways men feel for women or vice versa. It isn’t seeking the reasons on conjugal feelings called love or admiration to each other.  My mind seeks for an answer on why, I, as a man feel urged upon seeing a woman; as simple as or as complex as that.

As a boy, I heard many times or rather it was the mantra among my group of friends that girls experience about 9 times a day urging to have sex and the boys for about 3 to 6 times. When for all these years I could not care to find out the relevancy of its statement at least from my own experience, there was no way knowing on the 9th time. But having realized it now, I feel the ball is in my court and that I am soon going to find out if ‘3-6 times’ runs through my spine.

If I have waited such long years to realize it on this day and if I may think that there is the connection to the very thought, I may not like to choose any other day than the same day next year to seek the truth.

That leaves me roughly a year and by the time I close the bedroom door for 12 hours I would have experienced as many as 1095 to 2190 urges. And on that day, perhaps, if I have become so god fearing and go out to another pilgrimage, I will be completely focussed to myself counting the changes in me. And by chance, if any of the people I know happen to meet me on the way, forgive me for my utter change in behaviour for it will be my unfaltering focus onto the hormonal change.

It is a stupid thought but it came very strong today that it proved better than the last Dhi Chen Nga Zom where I intended shoving the houseflies away from disturbing my sleep but many landed dead on the floor.

Deep within me, I already feel I have paved a way to hell after my death. But by expressing this unscrupulous thought, at least I feel alright now. However, I shall strongly bank on the little merit I did today. Help me Tandin Nye when all the wrathful demons flock to imbibe every drop of blood from me. At least those drops would have experienced one truth while being on earth.

Situation deems

Monday, July 11, 2011

Situation deems different almost in everything. I will narrate on how situation deems different while ‘talking’ in accordance to the listeners or the possible eavesdropper around.

Out of many examples in the world, I shall stick to my own which is supposed to be very personal.

Unlike any surgeries on the human bodies, the surgery of abscess near the anus is different. I assume any operations on any abscesses are same. You experience once and you learn about it-I got one and I learned there are varieties of them named after the location of it. Out of all, only one remained in my mind – breast abscess, because the young lady and I got together in a queue for three hours to operation theatre. The two haemorrhoids introduced each other and learned how painful abscesses could be irrespective of their locations.  When she did not feel shy to tell me she had it on her breast, I told her my location near the anus. I also told her it was painful even to fart. She laughed little but soon went back to the pain.

After half an hour of operation, I was sent back with extra hole. Like I mused on my own aftermath operation I mused on the woman’s breast. I just wondered the location if she went with another hole on her breast . It was not that surgeon forgot to stitch back after letting the pus out. The skin was deliberately left open to pass any germs out before developing to abscess.

After three days, when my own bed started to stench the sewer, I closed the bathroom door and unhooked the wall mirror. On few rehearsals for better rear view I could place the mirror on the floor and bent myself enough to mistake the houseflies present I was into yoga therapy. The band aid and the cotton took ample groans and sighs with abrupt jump of feet to detach off the skin. When at last I viewed in the mirror, I was glad I am a straight. There was the point I even felt thanking my parents for not sending me to monkhood. But if I have had practised sodomy at the receiving end, any slip from the partner would force the germs hell out of the hole. Well, such was the terrific size I saw it in the mirror.

Many months later now, when I have to talk about it, I watch my words according to the people around. To those pair of balls who said their last boil was so painful, I tell them abscess is the mother of boils. I tell them that the surgery left me with extra hole to mistake the sodomy partner. Before anyone doubts my words I compare the size to the ping pong ball and warn them not to mess with me if we ever play table tennis. And the size of the ping pong ball sees many faces convincingly nodding in awe.

But situation deems different as I said. If any of the cousin sisters are around, I bypass many explanations and only tell them the recovery from abscess takes longer duration that one does not find solace in drinking anymore.

When I am done, many cousin sisters wish their drinking husbands get an abscess each. While I like their idea they must not guarantee their husbands don't bed with the same sex. I nod in awe.

P.S.: To those homosexual males and gays, I regretfully notify that I have not written for you to fancy me. For your information, I am fully recovered from perianal abscess without a mark of it.

Love of Summer

Friday, June 24, 2011

This summer I am in love. It is also unusually hot. I sit on the couch more than ever before. And I sit with little clothes on my body. I would have loved to take off the essential clothes but I can’t put them back at the lightening speed at the sound of door bell. So on little clothes of area at the freedom of anyone’s imagination, I sit on the couch embracing onto my newly found love. The sensation is nice; great, in fact. The summer’s love has become contagious everywhere I go. I visit my friends; sit on their couches and talk of happy things reminded by the summer love.  Contagious!

Last summer was different. It was hot but I was not in love. Forget being in love, I lived in hatred and there wasn’t any pleasure sitting on the couch. Of course, I did not wear long sleeves or ankle length jeans.

Then the winter came; harsh, insensate, cold and very cold. It made me heartless and stone-cold even after sinking inside the oversized coats. I remember freezing on the same couch with every parts of my body organs shaking on their own. And it was same even at my friends’ places. Contagiousness but I despised it.

Now the summer has come; it is hot and my flat swarmed with houseflies. I had every choice of being the same; grumble at the soaring heat or hate at the sight of uninvited guests. Initially there was sign of displeasure after I sat on the couch from the long hours of work in the field. I am glad I did not chicken-shit and all thanks to remembering how treacherous the last winter was. I was a dead chicken then. When my bones knuckled down to freezing cold I waited for the summer heat. Examining the latch of main door for second time, I shrugged off everything from my body and sunk on the couch. Few moments later, when I heard neighbours passing through corridor, I reluctantly put on my essential clothes and dozed off giving huge joy to my uninvited guests to perch on my skin, everywhere. The sensation was nice; great, in fact. And now I follow it every day.

I went to my friends’ place few days back. His wife wanted to bring me a frozen juice complaining of the heat. He supplemented her but as well complained on the swarming houseflies in defence of how they can’t keep the house neat and tidy. I threw myself on their huge leather couch and finished the tea on my thickest clothes. My friend in a boxer-short was taking the frozen juice shoving off the flies from his nose. He had definitely missed how nice this summer is. I went home happy but was little dissatisfied that the “love” could not be kept at his house. This summer, I love heat and I love houseflies too.

Copy Man

Friday, March 25, 2011

So what I am a copy man. I wear a copy Ray Ban sun glass. It is Roy Ban but people won’t be able to read it even from the kissing range. Men will hate themselves coming closer to me although I would wish women instead of them. But in broad daylight it shall take an insane courage for them to come so close to me. But in such a broad daylight, it helps my eye balls not having to constrict to the surrounding light even protecting me from dusts.

My apple iphone rings. I put it in my ear letting its one-bite-less apple logo peep between my fingers to see the world, actually to let the world see it. I talk with the real man on the other end. The conversation is fruitful, thanks to my copy iphone. To those people nearby me, they have no clue it is a clone iphone with dual sim inside it. As I slid it back to its place the turn comes to my wrist, the G-Shock watch. Of course a copy G-Shock watch.

I am a mild person by nature, drink less and speak less; the characteristic features which don’t let me into brawl or exchange the blows. In winter while I chop firewood I carefully place my G-Shock away from me. I love sports but while in games I don’t need to wear it. There are referees monitoring the match. But it makes me a faithful referee and it resists some vibrations from running after the men. I have bought it to direct me time and not to protect itself from shocks. However, its clumsy configuration and bold G-Shock shall shock the onlookers taking it as real. I feel macho with it. Ask me the time and with its help I will tell you the whole time zones in the world. I really love my copy watch.

I wear a Tee shirt partially showing off my muscle convulsions inside it. It is from Addidog written in the label hidden behind my neck. I don’t mind conveying I wear a copy shirt to the world. There are still some people who are funny and like to wear like me. The three logos of addidas is printed vertically in ascending order in the front very magnificently in the form of dog bones. Like real dogs confusing them as eatable bones grasps the onlookers with confusing zeal. The picture is funny and some funny people don’t get time to think if it is from original addidas. That is the best part in my copy shirt and I really don’t mind showing to the world. Some less funny people only admire my muscles inside it. That is funny to me.

Fashion is expensive. Young men now adopt to pencil leg jeans. I have it too. The difference-it is cheap and a copy from Levi’s jeans. Copy manufacturers are grateful they did not change the spelling of it. I will not wear it if they went to Leki’s jeans because that means a direct copy and all my other copy garments will be in stake. A fat wallet inside it really makes me cool. Fat does not necessarily mean it is full of notes.

Selecting snicker needs extra talent especially when I am in copy shops. If all the logos and trade labels are perfect, I spend much time going after odd colors because they are rare even in branded outlets. Unique color depicts I got the rare species from across the oceans or I have rich relative working in US or Europe. I have all my relatives in Bhutan and extra pink snicker is a real Nike to the world. They are comfortable in the beginning and it does not give me enough time to say how durable they are. I land up visiting cobbler’s shop many times.

Boxer short is a burden to my low budget but underwear is necessary. Since it is designated in the hidden place it has to be copy and nothing else, therefore, needs no explanation on it.

The sun has gone behind the clouds. The world is bright without sun glass and my body suddenly feels cold from the chilly wind. Tee shirt is useless and body abs shrunk. No one calls to my iphone but it is not important. A copy man has revealed enough and needs a warmer place. I have saved enough from these garments. It is time I get into a decent hotel and order the best meal and eat my heart out. That is all the advantage I have being a copy man. The street showing off is just one of them. So what I am a copy man?

When man wants a man

In a perfectly squared private room, the touch of his hand and just two of us; everything flashes back again. Nervous and shivered I laid on the bed that I did not mind the door half closed. As he told me to lie on the bed and open up the most secret part of my body I went into the state of torpor. From the room next door I could imagine the beautiful girls giggling or talking to some males and I could little wonder what state I would be in if one of them was in his place. But some experiences however weird and unusual they might seem become one of the most memorable moments in lives.

This was not planned. Or did not even in my normal conscience have thought I would be confronting with a male. Not even while I got boozed every evening. If I thought it during sober state, it could have been the radical idea I immediately felt yuck of it. But that is life, things falling in place when they have to and it was my turn though I did not feel the chosen one.

Everything was normal until 29 years; regular job, athletic, booze and flings. Of course I am a heterosexual, gladly involved in finite numbers and yet to add many in the coming years. I have a fair deal of hobbies that include games, scrabbling, drinking and boozing. I wonder if the last two can qualify to be hobbies but they have more impacts in my life than games and reading. Ultimately I found myself drinking everyday and all other hobbies seem to be inclusive in it and the pattern of thoughts started to change. The most prominent being the touch from a man. It starts to worry me though his hands were soft. Perhaps not as soft as any woman that touched me in the same area.

I did not wear cologne because that was not in my mind. Women did not mind it before. I realized he did not mind it either. Of course I had least idea it would be him and not her. Being a man, I expected a woman and went pretty clean myself. I still feel nervous to meet new people and I was nervous that day too. When such assortment of feelings ran in my spine, I felt like a donkey ready to winch up on the table and drip plentiful of sedative drug. It was a no returning point. Every experience begins from first time. Choice or not, I obliged to his words which hit my eardrums from a far-off land.

“Get on the bed,” he said without a tinge of inexperienced tone.

“Yes sir,” I muttered.

He prepared the latex with his hands. It was the time to frighten me up. The way he threw the cover into the bin and prepared himself for protection had me think how many times he did it in his life. As I wanted he spoke less. I wondered whether he talked less with the women on that bed. I talked more but not on his bed. A donkey does not talk.

I closed my eyes and turned towards the wall. I have shown him the most unimaginable but important part of me. From his position where he stood beside the bed, it could have been the best for him. He took good time before those big hands mould my skin.

And now this memory is reliving itself after many months. I can still hear his voice, imagine the bed, the girls giggling outside and of course the exposure incident and his touch.

The thought is sickening me. I have even caught fever. I am no more interested with my hobbies. With alcohol every evening, it has dominated every other likes. Some likes were so dear to me. I loathe alcohol more than anything. I want to read the books again, want to play games and become a normal twenty nine years old than seventy nine accepting the end to come anytime.

But priority seeks first. I have to meet him. Somehow I feel he will ask the question on my diet out of many questions in the world. May be that is his priority question mandated to ask. I don’t mind. I will lie down on his bed and once more show him my buttock, the swollen piles dangling from the rectum. I only wish it is not the female doctor. Otherwise this donkey is going to die.

Strangers' Strange Introduction

Everyone farts; from new born to geezer hood, sick or healthy, in toilets and in luxurious beds.  Mostly while being alone. If I have enjoyed seeing the bubbles in the bath tub so must have been with many. Farting is necessary from excessive consumption of beetle nuts while driving alone throughout the day, however, it does not warrant getting carried away from concentrating on road to enjoy its sound.  It did not cross my mind I should have counted how many times I released the gas on the road nor did it become important to contemplate back. But when such rare moment happened to me I was less gentle from maintaining the status quo of being a man.

I was fatigued and tired and decided to pull over at the motel for break. The lone roadside streetlight did not have power to illuminate other end of kerb. The wind was the coldest element greeting me right after I stepped out. Except for few barking dogs the place seemed desolated with motel seemingly closed before my arrival. However, I lurched upon seeing a soul deriving a heat from the stove. I was lucky there was another chair opposite to him and soon occupied it facing the stranger.

He was of my age and almost similarly dressed in denim and boots. The heat had almost lulled him to sleep. The black muffler was opened from his neck and his clean jacket was unzipped exposing Monte Carlo bodysuit sweater. If my initial impression on him was correct he was well educated in those cloths.    But basing upon the location of the place it contradicted my former thought to drag him to a criminal living on drugs. It was hard to believe such new age generation could be living in that dreadful place. Anything was possible and he could be anyone; I could not concern much. I wanted to derive heat from the warmer stove lying in the middle of us and allow my head to rest on the neck facing the cloudy sky.

The heat had warmed me up. I wanted to attract his attention to ask him if I had any chance of getting a cup of tea. He did not seem to notice me when he bent and locked the forehead in between his palms resting the elbows on the knees. There was the dark sunglass on his head looking at me. If only his eyes had looked at me, I thought. There was no way I could prove successful talking to him and neither had I wanted to drag the chair making a sound or cough distractingly to gather his attention. I kept looking over his head pretending to be enjoying his company while listening to the barking dogs and cracking of logs.

When the silence extended to my limits of patience I longed to communicate with the human being and not to the dogs and logs. My stranger was not likely to produce a sound let alone uttering a word.

He stayed in that position for longer time not heeding to the signal I made. Perhaps, I thought, I needed to speak to him first. A slow pretentious cough did not trigger his attentive cells. Or it did when he broke the lock of his palms, straightened his back and looked at me. He was a better looking person than me although I never wasted a second envying him.

The jubilance of smile vanished before it appeared on my face. He soon went back to his earlier position fixing the dark sunglass pointing towards me. I thought I lost the contact of human being. I was wrong. He communicated to me although I regretted my desire of hearing it.

That was disgusting in a crowd. Two was a crowd and I was the victim of his air biscuits.

“Poof” he farted at first. “Poof poof poof,” I lost the count. If only my nose could move or had come with an automatic shutter against the smell of nitrogen, carbon dioxide and methane.

Inside the grey Monte Carlo sweater there was his stomach revealing the contents of it. He must have been on diet eating foods that contained only sulphur. I could think only of eggs. It was important I did not waste time thinking of uncooked radish and other foods but act fast and cover my nose.

He did not stir a hair. And there was neither another sound. I could have run away if I heard it again. I changed my impression on him. He must have dressed up smartly like I did but he was not a man who went to college and spent three years with books. The good looks stripped off from him. I regretted I thought about it. He became a criminal living on drugs after he farted to an innocent man. I was the innocent victim who did not deserve such injustice at all. I sat raging inside without arms and ammunition to fight him back.

He raised his head up, sat straight and leaned against the chair comfortably stretching his legs. I did not want to meet his eyes even with accident. I rested my elbows on my knees, bent the head resting on palms and closed my eyes. I did not know if he looked at me when he saw my dark sunglass on my head. I sat there without stirring a hair or without making a noise by dragging a chair or pretending a cough. Until I remembered one sentence I learned from many books during those three years in college, “A man can fart 15-20 times a day.”

It was apt I remembered it on time although I could have exceeded the average threshold inside my car on the road. It only needed a little push and I could be armed with the weapon produced from beetle nuts.

The stranger was unaware of the preparedness of counterattack planned by a person sitting opposite to him. He must have been basking the heat fully conscious but not asleep. He was not asleep when I heard him shooing the barking dogs. But it had already surpassed the formal introduction when the launching time had come. I breathed few times silently constricting my abdomen. I even smiled within my palms and enjoyed to think how surprised I could take him out.

I stopped the final longer breath, constricted any relevant muscles but one and “Poof” came the loudest sound surprising me by the extra decibels I had not anticipated at all.

I did not stay on the chair to notice what compounds of gas betel nut had produced. I was only happy to get back to my car and hit the road after exchanging the strangest introductions of farts.

Bangkok Biscuit

Sunday, March 20, 2011

A new retail shop had come up near my house. Whenever I passed this shop I never missed looking at her. The spellbound of the girl had delighted my heart. She was strikingly beautiful with those lovely eyes, desiring smile and a tiny dimple in her cheek. To look at her was a feast to my eyes that would not even crave me famished from food. I could not resist such a beauteous sight and decided to enter her shop one fine day.

And one fine day, I manifested a stylish swank wearing clean jeans and pullover shirt with decent manner worn in the face and entered her shop. When she greeted me with her single dimpled cheek I almost fell to my knees wishing an intimate relationship with her. She was more beautiful than I thought. She could be more beautiful if I stepped closer to her and more beautiful if I looked deep down into her eyes, with her head rested on my pillow and I over her. "Ga chi zhey ni la" her sweet voice brought me back to her shop from my bed. I was choking from lack of words. I cleared my voice ostentatiously not forgetting the facial expressions of decency and flirt. I pretended to look around the shelves with perceived attention not missing her face in between the scan.

She was what I wanted and I pointed towards her. She saw me foolishly pointing at her which I had become at that instant but I said "Colgate" which was right behind her head. She gave me an empathizing smile and handed over me the toothpaste. I randomly pointed at few items as if I had memorized the prepared shopping list. She started picking up the items and it was the time I came to my normal self gathering ample courage to talk to her. I asked where she was from; where she had last studied and some of the farthest details of her so that she did not think I had not come for shopping. When she told me where she was from I told her I reached her place once upon a time, a lie. When she told me where she had last studied I told her my cousins studied in her school too, another lie. But "Do you have a boyfriend?" was a question I only wanted to ask repeatedly. And it was a question which I should not ask without asking those, short cuts are dangerous and they cut you short, I had to remind myself and asked her another rounds of questions on weather in winter, weather in summer, and some pompous talks.

When she answered openly and asked few things about me I thought the time for my delegated question had come. But the suspense was sweet and it was sweeter talking to her. To let her feel my presence as the serious shopper, I again pointed at some items as if I was recollecting slowly. And without doubting a hint she picked up the items and when she was done she would again talk to me with her fingers playing with the calculator or pen.

We could develop some intimacy to each other. I felt she enjoyed my presence. She laughed at my little naughty jokes. I thought I had to offer her some and let her enjoy more. I picked some cookies, chips packet and suddenly pointed towards the pad used by women. Naively I asked what biscuit it was. I told her I had not tasted that biscuit and if it was something from other country. "Bangkok biscuit eena?" I asked. I was looking at her and she showed some uneasiness to explain but I liked that expression; shy and smiling face, wanted to explain but could not. "Packet chi nang mei", I continued seriously and stole a glance at her. She was laughing straight at me. The packet was labeled as Kotax. I was explained what it was which I really enjoyed her candidness, and genuinely laughed with her.

I cleared the bill, thanked her, took my packages and when I was near to the door, I pointed to another packet labeled Whisper Ultra Thin and said, "Ani biscuit dhi za go no si si dhu sa". I left her laughing inside her shop.

Chatting faithful husband

Saturday, March 19, 2011

There were two kinds of mood going back to office after a long holiday break. The laziness was pervasive until I was given series of time bound tasks to complete. I switched on to momentous gear and picked up the speed to finish the tasks on time. It was 3.30 P.M. I needed a break. I fearlessly opened up Facebook to see her online. A colleague saw my monitor and looked at me in amazement.Seeing his monitor without chat sites always amazed me. He finds me a dumb husband deprived of the charm of virtual flirts.
“Hi,” I clicked breathing a sigh of relief. A relief basically from taking a break.
“What?” came the reply.
I am not good in chatting with people but I tried lest he saw how dumb I could become again.
“Beauty,” I typed.
“Who?” she typed instantly.
“You never say I am beautiful,” she wrote.
“Always beautiful to me,” I tried.
“Since when?” she tried and I smiled.
The colleague peeked onto her profile picture. I was lucky he could only see a teddy bear carrying a bouquet of flowers. He was not sure who the other end was by the nick Rose. But I knew any man could have thought a woman by a name Rose could not be without charms to stimulate his heartbeats.
He joined another colleague of his character and whispered in his ears. The second man turned towards me grinning his face.
“Since 2005,” I continued.
“Thank you,” she wrote.
I did not know how to proceed further. But I did not want to lose her. It was rare we met on chat.
“15 minutes to go,” I reminded her the time was 3.45 pm.
“Yes but I want to go home early,” she typed.
“Why? Missing your Namgyal?” I asked boldly. Namgyal is the cutest 1 year old son. I could not ask if she missed her husband.
“I miss him but I think  he likes you too,” she said.
“Really? I thought he likes me too,” I reinforced.
I was smiling. The two colleagues looked at me intriguingly. They could not have resisted imagining how dumb-ass like me must be wooing a woman when they jumped on to my desk.  A man can never be faithful to his wife was what they must be thinking. I did not know if they were happy to see me join their league.
“Time up now,” she sounded restless.
The two were blinking at the monitor. I did not show a sign of nervousness and typed zealously.
“Can I pick you up?” I typed looking at them. “Now?”
“Will you? But there is still few minutes to go. Can you come now?” That was interesting; to both of them.
“Be at the further end of parking lot near the medical shop you stayed last time,” it came out confidently. Two of them looked at each other away from the monitor.
“See you then Beauty. Let’s make a night :) ”
The second sentence was for my colleagues.
Without acknowledging their presence, I closed all the tabs, switched off the computer and started to collect my bag.
They did not move from my desk and spoke nothing. When any underestimated person does something beyond what they have presumed, there is always a feeling of foolishness creeping in.
I stood up from my desk, whispered an excited ‘bye’ and left them to pick up my wife.
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