The morning fight

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

It has become terribly cold in Thimphu. It seems the mercury level has also dropped low in some part of Indian cities as one page on Facebook humorously says ‘The refrigerator door of Rajnikanth has remained open’. I have requested him to close the refrigerator door immediately but of course, he is so busy he does not heed to my request.

The cold always reminds me of Hum Jaiga and I try to become one. Every morning, I accuse my daughter for a fight, “Let’s fight, will you?” She accepts it and we agitate ourselves by hitting softly and running around the house. After five minutes both of us pant and feel no more cold.

But yesterday, my partner was in no mood to fight back. I saw her sitting on the couch watching her favourite Chota Bheem. I was in no mood to surrender. My accusation had no effect on her. I changed the tactic; I accused Chota Bheem. I said, “I wish Chota Bheem dies.” It did not affect her. Is she sick? I thought.

“What happened to you?” I asked her softly, sitting beside her. She did not reply. She remained silent for some time and when she spoke, this father got a new idea to agitate her.

“I saw a dream,” she said.
“What did you see?” I asked. I placed my palm over her forehead. It was cold to my happiness.
“I was going downstairs and almost fell down,” she explained her dream. I could only smile. That was the first time she narrated her dream. I wondered if it was possible to remember the dream if she had ever seen it.

“Don’t you want to fight with me today?” I asked.
“I want to watch TV,” she replied. She was adamant she would not have another regular escapade of hitting-running to keep ourselves warm. I changed my concentration to my wife.

“Daughter has got hurt,” I shouted towards the kitchen.
“What happened to her?” my wife replied, concerned.
“It seems we have to take her to the hospital,” I said. I saw my wife coming out of kitchen towards us.
“Is she sick?” she asked.
“She had fallen down, from the staircase. We need to take her to a doctor to see if her legs are alright,” I explained.
It caught the concentration of my daughter. She does not like to go to a doctor.
“I did not fall down,” she screamed.
“Yes, you did. You told me just a moment ago. Don’t lie to your mother,” I said.
“Oww, mommy, yek cho ley,” she was breaking down.
Mommy squatted in front of her and asked what had happened to her.
“She fell down,” I intervened. “From the staircase in her dream.”

And next, it was not the daughter who chased me but her mother.

That F word

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

When something goes out of proportions, only one word takes over me. The face may give birth to a smile, the words may sling silver or perhaps I may shake someone’s hands firm but when the situation leads to an unnatural acceptance of my inner cognizance, I shout this word, F***, very loud.

Sometime, a month ago, I got a call from one of the private schools in Thimphu. It was a bad news the school could not accept the enrollment of my daughter. The reason was simple; her age did not fulfil the criteria. She was lesser by a few months to five. I cleared my voice.

“It is okay, sir,” I replied. “But can I say something?” I asked softly.
“What do you have to say?” he said.
“Sir, I knew the criteria of attaining five years old to get into your school,” I started. “Yet I applied for it.”
The man at the other end giggled, perhaps, having found me as a foolish person.
“Sir, you and I know, most of the kids are not five years old. They are made five, right sir?” I said.
The giggling stopped. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.
“Parents forge the ages of their own kids and I was told to do the same,” I explained.
The giggling started again. It confirmed, at least to me, he heard me correct.
“I submitted the original health card of my daughter because deep within me, I expected the school management would consider her application. I thought school would think on this line, ‘When we consciously know many of the submitted ages are not true, at least one father submitted honestly for his kid whose age is as equal as to those we approve yearly’.  I had this inner flame glowing you would call my daughter for a basic interview. I would not not mind if she was rejected from there.” I took a deep breath consciously keeping a low sense of humor in between.

“We are sorry, we go by books,” he said.

It did not seem he was hurt. There was no reason to get hurt, because I did not accuse the management of the school at all. On top of that, I made the statement light hearted through humble tone. It was only known to me that I was belittling him and his school tactfully by such a manner.

He did not say sorry. I did not mind it. Instead, I told him my daughter will come back next year and make his school proud. He laughed at it. But that was not how I wanted to end the story.

“Sir, don’t you want to know, why I did not forge my daughter’s age?” I asked rhetorically.
“Sir, I consider myself living an honest life all through. It would have been very bad of me to begin my daughter’s life telling lie. Goodbye sir,” I ended the conversation.

I still wonder whether he was able to understand that his school was a promoter of telling lies. Whether he got the meaning or not, I said this F word very loud.

Short, Fat and the Tall

Friday, January 4, 2013

One is short, one is fat and one is tall. The short is dark, the fat one a pixel better and the tall one fairer. The short is the ugliest, the fat one uglier, the tall one a plain ugly. The short one is from East, fat from Central and tall from West of Bhutan. The short is an engineer by profession, fat is an employee of NGO and the tall one is the educationist.

These three are not the muskeeters but a triad who met over the lunch. When the waiter came to their table, each gave their orders of their favourite dish. The life of the waiter was made simple because each one of them wanted to have the same dish.

The fat started to talk on a topic which  people on other tables mostly would not think of. He talked on books. The jaws of the tall man dropped while the short’s mouth remained wide open. How much each wanted to share their thoughts on the books? Hence, each talked about the passion of books.

The tall one then switched the topic to ‘blogs’. The jaws of short one dropped while the fat’s mouth remained wide open. How much each wanted to share their thoughts on their blogsites?

These three are differently same and they are Ugyen as Short one for, Nawang as Fat one for and Passu as Tall one for
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