Confused

A moment before I open my eyes today, I hear myself saying, “Ugyen, enough is enough”. My own voice shocks me and I get up. It is a weird experience calling my own name along with a statement that cannot make any sense. I have nothing “enough” to live rest of my life in abundance. How I wish I am wealthy enough to stop working a minute more. I would have obviously hinted to that alarm call, put up the resignation letter, hire a chopper from Indian military and fly to Thimphu . I will then shock the hell out of my wife announcing all four of us – myself, wife and two kids, to board on a special charter to meet Mr. Bill Gates wherever he is at the moment. “Do you still want money?” I will ask him. Somehow, I feel he still needs money. I need chopper too.

If it is the spiritual call, can I renounce this chair? I don’t hope so. There shall be no thought on drafting resignation letter for it. I have to keep supplying food on my table, and drinks too. Can I stay naked?

What is it about about then? A nightmare? I do not have tall mirror facing my bed.

Can it be these invisible germs nesting inside my throat? What’s wrong with my invisible WBC? The Invisible(s). They dread to end the lives out of diseases and plagues.

Or is it my unenlightened inconspicuous mind? Yet another “invisible” which is responsible to end the lives in its own ways.

Hold on, something awaits me to cheer me up. Ah! The text on my cell. The office has credited the work I have done. Well, never mind on the tax already deducted at source before the earnings reach me. Can I go against something which is legitimate? See, in the same para, my mood starts to swing.

I look good. I see it the in the mirror every morning after wash ups. It is fortunate I don’t have to keep staring in the same mirror throughout the day.

The reason of this morning’s ordeal? I am so confused.

Why I don't hang my underpants outside

One garment that I do not attempt to dry outside is my underpants. It is not because I am scared of someone stealing them. I swear I don’t wear golden fabric underwear. Modestly I wear mostly from Jockeys – they are comfortable and last pretty long.

I live in a clustered housing colony where I get to see every day the fanciful shirts, pants, bras and underpants hanging in every porch of the house. I have acquainted with the colors and fabric of the clothes that distinguish from men and women. I have come to know that most men wear ash colored underpants and a few black. Its counterparts are mostly pink and some red. There is yet another distinction of fairness touched upon on pinkies and reds from the ashes and blacks by offering silky threads as their wearers’ skin. But I am always taken aback by their confidence to hang them outside unlike my few ashes and blacks that have never breathed the air or seen the sun. As much as I have the capacity to draw many opinions just from the sights of them, I stick here to why I don’t attempt to dry my own tiny clothes outside. That way I maintain some form of decency to myself and show some respect to others. However, it is not that I have not tried to hang my underwear in all this time. One fine Saturday, I slotted it in between my two big linens and went out for a long drive away from my home. I can still remember experiencing some sense of achievement in doing it so – not the long drive but from hanging the V shaped garment in the sun.

As unpredictable as the summer season, it started to rain and then I panicked. I thought of my bed sheets and towels getting soaked just as when they were about to get dried up. But in the clustered colony where I live have many kind-hearted aunties who for many times had taken my clothes to safety. I was relieved with the thought. I continued my journey. It was raining cats and dogs.

The sun had already set when I opened the main door of my house. I did not get in. I took three steps backwards and craned my neck to see my clothes gone from the rope. All the clothes have reached to safety except those belonged to me. I went in and sat on the dining chair, the nearest I could find to ease my declining mood.

My neighbor aunties did not do me the favor. They failed to take my clothes off the slack. But I knew they must have tried. They are all kind-hearted aunties. I came to the conclusion that the fate of my important linens were doomed all due to my tiny underwear that I had slotted in. From there on, I make sure my underpants of whatever the colors – ashes or blacks, do not see the light of the sun or breathe fresh air of any season of the year. They chose the fate by themselves to remain inside the house taking forever before they get ready to come to my skin.

Happy Underwear. I mean Happy New Year.