Highlanders almost became the terrorists

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

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.

“Then?”

“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.

“Long?”

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.