(Story of man's lust, woman's tradegy, of lies and scented love, and a journey of self realisation)
Prologue: Bracing the night
“No I cannot. Please. Not today.” Her reluctance in words was stronger than her gesture. She held on to his hands caressing on her bare bosom. ‘Not today’ sounded like a she was asking to delay for another day. He knew she was not absolutely reluctant, but he did not want to repent total denial.
‘We are doing wrong. Please let us not.” She whispered, lips trembling. She saw feeble faces of her son, bringing her to a stillness.
The man beside her covered her mouth in the cup of his hand. His lips pressed on her lips as if to silence it. She breathed in his strong awful reek of whiskey. In a hazy memory, he thought of his children and wife. They seem to look at him from the glass. He fell back on his seat.
I envy those men who do not need to pack his paraphernalia of clothes and wears on his own. Their wives seem to knows what her man would need, how much and how many of the basic necessities. She serves him his hot tea and a quick meal. She watches him eat, then ruffles through the baggage to ensure nothing is left to pack.
Dorji Tshering was one fortunate man to have a complete woman in his wife. He hugs his children, kisses her with a hope of seeing her soon, and lifts his bag to walk to the car. His wife says ‘Drive slowly. Do not drink. Be cautious.’
He replies with a smile, “ Okey, okey…give children food on time. Do not let them play out in the sun too much.”
She drags the other bag to the car. ‘Do you have enough money?’ She asks, a caring tone singing in her heart. He nods.
As Dorji waves to her, he sees children waving ‘bye’ from
behind, their voices echoing through the betel tree leaves. An air of melancholic nudge clogs in his heart. He purses his cold lips and accelerates on to the highway, cruising like a race car. Soon he is far from his home, driving through the curves on towards Thimphu. Phuentsholing is lost to the forest and hills behind him. The afternoon sun was falling on the western peaks.
He glances on the road side for any passenger to accompany him. The afternoon sun glares brightly on the bonnet of his white Corona. His hope for any passenger to accompany on his long ride dims soon after crossing the Rinchending Police check post. He passes through the mist, making him more lonesome.
II. An Angel
Loneliness has always been his distaste. It made his heart cold. He plays songs on his mobile and tried to sing chorus. He wishes he had someone to talk to on the sleepy afternoon. A cargo carrier truck horns wildly at the sharp bend near the Sorchen Pass. He almost rattles into the left drain, brushing into the pile of sand. His speedometer falls sleepily from 65KM/Hr to 45 KM/Hr. He realizes he was over-speeding on the precarious angles of the road. Driving alone has always made him forget his speed.
Dorji appears into the light from the misty sanctuary of Jumbja face. He feels like he has awoken after minutes of oblivious driving through the mist. He draws down the window pane to let in cool breeze. A few minutes he enter Gedu town. A a dark shapely figure gestures for a lift. He slows gracefully near a woman with a pink hand bag.
“Can I ride to Thimphu? All Taxis were full.” She reasons, pleadingly.
“Alright, get in.’ Dorji says without hesitance. He needed a company, it did not matter who. She shoves her black bag and pushes herself into the car. Dorji meets her eyes on the rear mirror, an expressionless face of an angle with a frozen gaze.
The Corona curves comfortably with an extra weight.
“Are you student of GCBS? Studying?’ Dorji asks abruptly, more as an introduction than a question.
His anticipation comes out wrong. “ No. I am staying with my husband. I dropped in X three years ago.” She inhales heavily as if reluctant to talk.
Dorji’s curiosity gets the better of him. His mind juggles about her age from her looks. His mathematics answers him not older than thirty.
He begins his quiz. “Why are you going to Thimphu? Where are you from?” This was a cursory statement for any stranger to hear.
She leans back, tightening her muffler across her face. “Jamkhar. Going to meet my mother. She is alone.’ She responds between breaths.
Dorji concludes her father was either separated or demised long time ago. He feels there was something amiss about her travel to Thimphu. Her frozen gaze bereft of joy meant trouble. He enquires her name, more to comfort her than to connect with her. Knowing each other’s name makes it easy to engage into deeper conversation.
‘Dema.’ He hears through her mufflers.
The road is smooth. It snakes like a gigantic boa on the hill sides. Dorji’s old car sail like canoe on an Egyptian Nile. His speed did not rise above forty. He plays a music at a low volume.
“Look at the waterfall, an exquisite natural panorama! Our country is ornamented with such beautiful sights.” Dorji exclaims, glancing at the huge white shade on the opposite mountain side between the fleet of passing trees.
They stop for a coffee at the Dam View Restaurent.
“Come let’s have something.” Dorji invites like he was asking his children for a treat. The cold current, perhaps from the Dam, severs through his woolen jacket. She follows him to the restaurant.
He orders four pegs of whiskey with warm water. Dema sits across him, clutching a mug of tea. The steam dances over the rim as she sips. Her lower lips were slightly bluish, like an injury from a fall, and a graze on her brow. A beautiful woman with marks of concern,
She was fair, a glistening eyes with a dimple on her left. Dorji could easily mistake her for a college beauty pageant.
Dorji doubts if she had trouble with her husband.
‘Do you drink?’ He asks bluntly, lifting his glass.
Dema denies with a stardom smile, prompting Dorji to ask another.
“ Spy, it will warm you.’’ He consoles.
Dema feels comforted and fortunate she met a hospitable ride. She nods for Spy. Dorji hails the bartender for the yellow one. A glint of smile wrinkles below her eye.
“What happened to your lip?’ Dorji intrudes warrior-like.
She sits quietly looking out of the window. Suddenly a sombre grin falls on her brow.
The dam flickers with late afternoon sunrays over the western zenith. “I can’t finish all.” She says, as Dorji pours in the glass.
“This will lighten your pain on the lip, and those in your heart. I won’t force any more.” He laughs.
Dema giggles to his gesture. Dorji gulps down the whiskey without water like a professional.
IV. Frozen tale
“Can I sit here?” With a boldness borne more out of the Spy wine then Dorji’s engaging conversation, Dema flings open the front door. Dorji picks his diary and flips into the dashboard. He dusts away the seat with an inviting hospitality. “Please wai.” He felt his heart jumping.
He gears backwards carefully and throttles on the road racing to a smooth ride. She slides back closing her eyes. Dorji notices an aura of new born calmness on her face, an innocent face of a collegian for a troubled housewife.The orange evening sunray caresses her hairline. She fell asleep, and he became lonely for couple of minutes.
He slows down as they pass through Tsimasham town. The smokes from the houses invaded the street. Dorji turns and looks at Dema, and for the first time he realizes how chubby and delicately charming she was. Her slender ring finger wore a copper ring studded with some cheap green stone. She did not seem like she was married, but he was told she had a man and a son she mothered seven years ago.
Dema awakens to a blaring horn from Meto Transport bus hissing up the road. Dorji halted precariously on the Chapcha roadside. Darkness was setting in.
“ Where are we?’ Dema asks him before raising herself from her inclined seat. “ I fell asleep.” She excuses.
“We are near Chapcha school junction. You slept for quite sometime. I missed you meii.” He intends a humour.
Dema remembers Chapcha school days, making her bite her lips before she awakens fully. Dorji touches her hands to assure everything is alright. She looks at him and smiles. It was a comforting feeling for dorji to feel welcomed and friendly.
Dema recalls her Saturday afternoon some four years ago, a moment underneath the Artemisia bush below the school fence. It was a cold November romance. Karma, Dema’s discreet boy friend, had clung to her from behind as she was reading ‘Windmills of the Gods.’ They had hidden away in the bush on that afternoon to study. Karma had kissed her on the neck and then nibbled her ears. Dema had asked Karma to wait until she finished the chapter, she was reading but Karma had held her from her waist, cleverly touching her warm skin.
“I love you Dema. I will wait for your graduation.” There were only few weeks for Karma to complete his tenth grade. Dema was in nine. Her silent fears of losing the most handsome boy in school haunted her. She had to find ways to assure her hope of not losing her first love forever. ‘He will be gone next year, yet I can’t lose him forever.’ Her love for him longed for keeping her relationship forever.
She turned and kissed him on the lips. It felt like a seal for a forever love. The kisses became wilder. Neither the rustling breeze nor the chirps and bark from around distracted them.
“I love you so much. So very much.” Karma reassured her as he loosened her belt. She felt like she was falling asleep. Dema closed her eyes into the brightness of her hope and promise. There was neither fear nor anxiety as her eyes closed and drowned into Karma’s whispers.
It was only by March of the following year that her class teacher questioned her about her probable conception. She had been ill repeatedly from the beginning and missed classes. She had known of her inevitable situation, and had hidden from her friends until her teacher talked to her.
She wrote to Karma who was on Nursing Training at Thailand. He had told her he would complete after four years. It was devastation. Her matron informed her parents and she left school quietly.
She had confronted all the humiliation while at home. Gedu’s foggy weather isolated her from the echoes of defamation. Her mother quietly bore the pain. She had left school, but her Principal asked her to continue after delivery. Repentance made her stronger. She had told herself she was not the first woman on earth to repent on a hope she believed in. She accepted her fate.
VI. Healing moments
Dorji looks at her as they throttle forward again. Darkness falling makes him more comfortable to engage. “You have marks on your face. Fallen?” He interjects.
Dema purses her lips. Eyes become tearful. “I have spoiled my life.” She coughs, as if to hide her pain.
“No marriage has a perfect story, mine too. If you think mine can be perfect because I drive this car, you can be wrong.” Dorji consoles her, intending to gain trust and company. Dema retorts, awakening from her gross reverie, “Yes. It is true. Until they do not confide everything looks perfect. I see my friends going through difficult marriage but stands tall when going out.” Dema is more conversational then before.
She tells him she was harassed by her husband every night. He had hit her several times in her drunken stupor. She said she could get killed if she was found with other men. The other night she was thrown against the wooden box and bled from her lips and tongue.
Dorji realised, her beauty and youthfulness must scare her husband from losing her. “He is lucky to have pretty woman like you for his wife.” He didn’t know why he said this.
She had left her seven years old son at school and taken the ride to freedom. She wanted to ride away to Phuentsholing and hide, but had taken Dorji’s hospitality towards Thimohu.
“Are your parents in Thimphu?’’ Dorji interrupted.
“No. I have a cousin.’’ Dorji parks the car on the road side at a sharp corner.
“Toilet.” He requests. It is deep dusk outside. The light from the crescent moon barely illuminates the foliages. He disappears behind the rock. Dema climbs below the road after Dorji vanishes through the thick foliages.
Dorji sat in the car waiting, wondering about Dema’s life. When she came, she smiled at him.
“It is a karmic connection that we meet strangely today and that we have similar story.’’ Dorji remarks.
A light from a Hiace bus brightens Dema’s face.
She stares at him and makes a bold defense. “It is not at all similar. You have a wife,a job and children, don’t you?”
“Wife, No. Children, yes. I was divorced three months now.”Dema does not believe him. “You are lying.’’
Dorji slows the car at a snails’ pace. He clasps his left hand over her cold fingers. “Trust me. What would I profit lying? I am not going to Thimphu actually. I am going to Paro. I love Paro.”
Dema feels comforted and suddenly calm. “Men tell good lies. I am sorry I doubted you. You are from Paro?” She turns her palm over and encloses her finger around his. This almost startled Dorji. He feels good to have given her a moment of freedom and healing. Dorji halts on a wide stretch, as a train of cars passes by.
Dorji tells her his parents were from Yangtsi and had settled in Paro many years back. His parents have died. His younger sister lives with her husband in Shari. Dema gazes at him like she has found her school love Karma again.
They sit in the darkness of the car holding on to each other. It was a moment Dema always wanted to live, a moment when a man accepts her past, hold her hands with love and talks with a melodious tone. A wounded doe shall trust beyond any ounce of doubt and become devotional even to a hunter who it watched with suspicion from the thicket if there is hope for happiness.
In a momentary depth of immense joy she leaned on his gentle shoulders, tears streaming like rivulets. He hiccups drew Dorji to unfasten the car belt and embrace this wounded doe. He felt responsible to infuse his passenger with warmth and hope. He let her cry.
VII. Dark story
Her years at Gedu had been some harsh minutes of humiliation, harassment and isolation. It had all begun after her last moments with Karma at Chapcha School.
“Thank you for being so nice. You are a good man. I think your wife lost a good husband.” She held his hands and leaned on his shoulder, tears limpid in her eyes.
“Where is your husband from?” Dorji felt bad to ask.
Dema sits back and tells him her past like narrating an old tale. It hurt her to recall Karma again. Karma had never returned to her. His betrayal had broken her to loneliness and shame. She had started drinking despite being pregnant. She did not receive letters or phone calls from Karma. All her attempts to contact him only ruined her hope and health. When she gave birth to her son, her mother was the only person at her bed side. She promised to forget Karma forever and to live with her mother, working on her mother’s loom.
“ I didn’t want to marry at all. Chedrup was our neighbor. He is an electric technician at Gedu College.” Dema almost stammers as she speaks. Her tone was hard.
Dorji pulls her hands and warms with his, as if to tell she must not speak any more.
“It must have been tough for you to lose school life and to be betrayed by Karma. Your marriage to Chedrup is not your mistake. If you didn’t marry him, some other could have.” Dorji consoles her.
She trembles and cries. Her face is wet and crimson. She looked more childlike in her sniffling. Dorji cannot resist her pain. He leans over and draws her head on his shoulder. It is an awkward situation to embrace a devastated woman and also to restrain an urge to kiss her to comfort.
“Hey!” He holds her face in her palm. A mysterious intent blinds his morale as a man to whom Dema was beginning to lay faith on. Her face was wet with tears. He bends over from his seat and plants his lips on hers. She closes her eyes as if ashamed after confessing her past. Dema was unresponsive but did not restrain Dorji’s inviting intrusion. Her lips were warm. The taste of tears only deepened his embrace.
Dema feels a beautiful pain on her lips, like being nursed to heal forever. Her finger entwines aggressively on Dorji’s sweaty fingers as if to squeeze her repentance into his palms.
A passing Land Cruiser whistles teasingly. It raises the dipper lights to peek at the couple in the Corona. Dema instantly loosens her grip shaking off Dorji, feeling embarrassed. Dorji slinks back.
He accidently presses the horn, shrieking with unusual tone. It appeared like a reaction to the Land Cruiser. Both feels guilty about what happened, but Dema suddenly relives her moments with first love in the Artemisia bush.
“Shall we go? It’s getting very late.” Dema draws her muffler to brace the cold.
“Let’s go. Its cold out here.’’ Dorji manages to mutter, and ignites the car, revving up hard.
“Will I get Taxi from Chuzom at this hour?’’ Dema questions. Dorji shrugs his broad shoulders, ‘’Perhaps, we will see. Don’t worry?’’
VIII. Indecisive route
Dema has reasons to worry. She worries of reaching late, of being reprimanded by her cousin for running away again, and of her son asking father where mother was. She knows Chedrup would call her cousin to check on her. Nonetheless, her hidden worries do not seem to matter when weighing against all the odds of her recent past cat and dog life with Chedrup.
Dorji’s warm palm on her palm somehow gives her the magical minutes of oblivion. Today, she smiled for most part of the journey, often feeling the same joy of her good days under the Artemisia canopy at Chapcha School.
The car dashboard clock chimes a cuckoo, flickering blue. It was seven past fifteen. The Chuzom gateway glimmers radiantly to welcome the love car. The prayer wheel at the gate stands frozen against the icy breeze. Dorji jumps taps on Dema’s arm and leaps out of the car to halt a taxi for Dema to Thimphu. Dorji halts two Taxis, but both are full.
He returns and sits in the car rubbing his hands. The car’s heater warms him. Dorji locks his cold finger over Dema’s warm hands. Several minutes pass by waiting for a taxi. Dema’s worry seems to come true. “You may go to Paro. I shall wait outside. May be I will ask the police duty men to help get me lift.” Dema suggests Dorji for a goodbye.
Dorji quizzes between envy and longing to be with Dema. His masculine surge for some more time together calls his conscience.
“It is just less than an hour’s drive to Thimphu. You are my friend, I will drive you there.”
Dema was hoping for the same. She felt awkward to ask, and feared she may have to travel alone to Thimphu.
Something inside her didn’t want to leave Dorji’s company. Women will honour what she believes is a man’s goodness and return favour with equal understanding.
“Let’s go then, it is getting late.” Dema agrees hastily. She does not want Dorji to change his mind, and for her to seek help from another stranger to with. Every other man appear to be better than her husband, and it was healing to have Dorji for the day.
The car sweeps into the hazy moonlight road. “Are you returning tonight to Paro?” Dema enquires, with the tone of worry on her raised brows.
“I don’t know!” Dorji’s urge to hang on to this woman is more aggressive than his denial to be reluctant. His moral fidelity does not question his quick answers.
He pulls her palm on to his lap. Dema relaxes backwards, heaving a sigh of a mother who heard her baby is born well.
“Where is your cousin staying?” Dorji asks like a gentle man.
Dema confesses, surprising him. “I haven’t told my cousin I am coming. They use to stay at Dechhencholing. I know the house.”
Dorji’s mind weighs between whether this is a reference to she has nowhere to go and hope for him to provide her sanctuary.
“Shall we have last for the road Whiskey and Spy?” Dorji pleads her and turns left at the Vegetable Market. He slithers the car between a narrow space near Lhaje’s Bar.
IX. Taking refuge
Aum Lhaje is one burly woman in a brown sweater and ash coloured woven half-kira. Her sweater apparently is older than her age. Her garment equals the smoky walls of her century old bar with a loosely hung wall clock and a faded portrait of a Lhasa.
The couple walk into the bar. It’s empty and dim.
“Lopen, its closing time. We usually close at nine.” It’s almost a growl over their head.
Dorji leans over the table and promises they would not take long. Aum Lhaje pours him double and hands him a Spy wine.
Dorji savours his whiskey with a gulp and watches Dema sipping in a sleepy movement. When Dorji served another double, Dema lifts another bottle. In whispers and smiles, they empty their colours.
Aum Lhaje scoops the two empty ‘Spy’ bottles leaning against the wall into her haggard hands, snatches the notes from Dorji and wobbles behind the counter.
“I am sorry for keeping us late.” Dorji throws his right arm heavily over Dema’s lean shoulders as they juggles out Lhaje’s Bar. He giggles at his plain humour.
“Me too! I hope you don’t mind. Dema stutters, and staggers with Dorji. They see two policemen by the electric pole watching them suspiciously, as they stagger to the car.
Dorji fumbles for the key, opens the door inviting Dema to the seat. He gets behind the steering and vanishes towards the right, heading to Lungtenzampa Bridge.
“Where are we going? Aren’t you reaching me to Dechhenchholing?” Dema is not as tipsy as Dorji is assuming.
“It’s a beautiful sight to see at night this whole god damn city from Buddha point.
“Buddha is god-damned?” Dema revolts cynically.
“No! We are tonight. You don’t have place to go, I have choices to make.” Dorji teases.
She does not gesture reluctance to dorji’s invitation. Her trust of friendship overshadows any ability to distrust him.
“ –then we shall go home-‘ Dorji concludes.
Dorji has forgotten his caring wife who packed his things and hugged him good bye in the morning. He had messaged him he had reached Paro.
Perhaps he is too drunk to think of fidelity while his friendship has deepened seductively to Dema.
Dorji grips on Dema’s thigh, startling her to an ‘Ouch’ without denial. He is more courageous and demanding now. Dema nods, smiling seductively. There is neither fear of the present nor worry of the future. It is like the first day of her rendezvous with Karma at Chapcha School, behind the auditorium one Saturday night some years ago. Carnal longing has often weakened man to become emboldened into mistaken fidelity.
X. Tough decisions
A black Santafe rests camouflaged under the thick pine trees some meters away. Dema is unaware that a business man and House-keeper at the Selwong Resort are making their menacing night in the shadows. As he turns left, away from the road, the light strikes the Santafee. They see two silhouettes ducking behind the rear doors. ‘Devious’ he thinks, and grins at his own gullibility.
Dorji noses his Corona against the bushes, away from moonlight glare. Buddha Point is several meters away on the top from their parking place. One the left a huge boulder hides them, while on the right the bushes curtain them from the road. Through the windshield, over the cliff face, he could see the Buddha’s knot of hair.
Spy wine makes her drowsy. She leans back, restful like she sometimes does at home after a tiring day.
Dorji’s snap on his ears and awakens her. “Where are we?”
Dorji points to the Buddha’s knot of hair. Dema rolls the glass down amd inhales the chilly breeze to shrug off drowsiness. She begins to feel vulnerable yet pleased to be away from chaos of her memories.
Dorji stretches over, grazing against her bosom, resting his left palm on her thighs, and closes the glasses.
“This cold will crack your lips.” He warns softly. Dorji retrives himself away slowly and hugs her as if for warmth.
“Oh! You are naughty.” Dema does not find strength to push him for reason she can barely think. “Your wife will skin me off.” She cautions half as sternly as women would do. Dorji feels sensually overwhelmed to feel any guilt.
“I can’t do this. Please. Not here.” She whispers as Dorji closes his wet lips oh her wounded lips. He nurses the cut delicately with his tongue. Dema’s arms wound around Dorji, and kisses him back.
“Thank you for your time.” She whispers again. Dema’s gesture does not fully seem to accept Dorji’s manly greed.
Dorji draws her seat backwards surprising Dema. His trembling hands sneaks up her blouse. Dema holds his hands as if fighting against a boa.
‘‘No.’’ Dema remarks sharply, forcing Dorji to slide away.
Panting heavily, he caresses on her shoulders. Dema feels far too invaded. She becomes stiff. An unnamed strength bellows through her muscles.
She pushes Dorji into his seat. “People will see us. Please, let’s go.”
Dorji suddenly feels the pain of embarrassment for misjudging Dema’s timidity as her frail acceptance to his companion.
“Is she scared that night stalkers would see them? Does she mean we must go somewhere else?” Questions coil in his head like children’s fire crackers hissing away amidst sounds of bigger burst of rockets in his head.
XI. Bracing the Night
Like a sudden burst of malarial patient shiver in feverish spasm, Dorji feels annoyance race through his brain to the muscles of his hands. An inhuman urge to smack her on the face makes his hand clench tightly on the wheel. His lips become hardened.
He waggles his brow against the center of the steering wheel, appearing submission to Dema’s reluctance. The horn echoes incessantly into the darkness.
Dema cuts in sharply, “What are you doing? Please let’s go?”
Dorji looks at her with hateful gaze. “Are you sure? Why-?’ Dorji pleads, yet behind his question an answer feebly makes him feel guilty. His hand rests gently on her again, as if he is playing with a teddy.
“No I cannot. Please. Not today.” Her reluctance in words was stronger than her gesture. She held on to his hands caressing on her bare bosom. ‘Not today’ sounded like a she was asking to delay for another day. He knew she was not absolutely reluctant, but he did not want to repent total denial.
‘We are doing wrong. Please let us not.” She whispered, lips trembling. She saw feeble faces of her son, bringing her to a stillness.
The man beside her covered her mouth in the cup of his hand. His lips pressed on her lips as if to silence it. She breathed in his strong awful reek of whiskey. In a hazy memory, he thought of his children and wife. They seem to look at him from the glass. He fell back on his seat.
This time he finds some strength to question the morality of his action. “Okey! Sorry about all this.” Dorji mutters as he slips the gear backwards with a jerk.
“I am going to stay at a Hotel downtown. I will reach you at your cousins.” Dorji bounces from the roadside on to the smooth road. The dash board timer read 10.50 PM.
They drove down the cold moonlit road for few minutes in silence, like spouses driving home after an argument at a friends’ birthday party. Dema keeps staring at him, smiling teasingly. He grins at her in return. She rests her hand on his lap, teasing him to calm down. “Sorry…” She looks at him. “Sorry..” She is louder and clutches at his arm muscles.
Dorji halts with a screeching response. “Are we going to be on the road the whole night?” Dorji barks. His voice for the first time rings with a confidence of a big brother. His gaze is more fatherly then was ever before. He appeared resolute at ending the night to his own comfort at a hotel.
XII. Seeking joy
“Aii!” She holds his face in her hands shaking him from his finality. She surprises her with a motherly look; a look which effuses understanding and love. She leans over kissing him on his cheek.
“I lied. I don’t have a cousin here. I don’t have any one. I may have, but I don’t know them. I have never come to Thimphu since I left school.” Her hands slowly falls into his cold hands.
He cups her hands to his heart. “Why did you lie? You shouldn’t have come with me to Paro then?” Dorji enquires aghast.
Tears trickle down her eyes and wets her lips. She breaks down sobbing on his shoulders. Dorji is puzzled at her reactions from being inviting all the way, often reluctant and then suddenly taking refuge indefinitely. “Please don’t -?” Dorji raises her head and hugs her.
“I just wanted to be with you. I felt happy with the freedom of your company. I am scared to lose this hour, this beautiful hour. I am sorry, I felt scared I may lose myself to you completely and suffer even more.” Dorji feels dumbfounded.
It is true women are strange species, and very few men can decipher their depth and vastness of thoughts. Dorji is not one of the ‘very few.’
Dorji begins to comprehend, otherwise, the depth and vastness of her devastated childhood dreams and womanly hopes.
Dema’s delicate hopes for happier tomorrow had broken away with Karma’s betrayal, and her prospect of graduating to become a teacher shattered forever, shattering her promise to her only parent, her sickly mother. Dema’s marriage gave her few months of deliverance from the repentance of her sordid past, a freedom from Karma’s betrayal. No sooner than she realized the inevitability of becoming mother then she found herself despised by her husband, Chedrup.
The promises Chedrup made to love her despite knowing she was pregnant from another man had led to her marriage to him. Her son’s birth was the beginning of her sour marriage.
Dorji could see how Dema’s hopes hung on for better days against the windstorm of her cloistered pain and endless suffering. Dorji realizes why Dema hung on to the good hours and braced against losing her only timeless joy forever again.
XIII. Freeing the aches
The ivory black Santafe hoots annoyingly behind them for a side. Dorji draws the gear to neutral, releases the brakes and floats towards the left. The Resort girl with the hooded wool peers through into the Corona.
Dorji, can I stay with you tonight? I will return home tomorrow.” Dema recalls him from his attention lost at the Resort girl.
Dorji does not find the correct way to answer. Hours and minutes ago he was denied intimacy. Now her bold pleading for her to be with him for the night rattles him with fear. Dorji’s decision swings in a dilemma.
He wonders whether her happiness in his acceptance would make her happier than his happiness of sleeping with her, or he would hurt her forever again.
He replies cautiously, “It’s late; we may not get a good lodge. I know one at Panda’s Lodge, its cozy.” Dema wipes her tears drying on her cheeks with her muffler, cuddles his left arm strongly and kisses on his palm.
The inside of the windscreen is fogged with their breath. Dorji wipes it and throttles forward into the city.
“I lied too.” Dorji confesses as he smuggled himself into the blankets beside her. “ I lied I was divorced. I am not.” Dema does not seem to show any expression, any response. It does not seem to matter if Dorji was married or divorced anymore. She smiles at the crescent moon peeping through the orange curtain lines. Night is stark silent and she lingers on worshipping the best days of her little life to end well at least for the day.
At the Panda’s they were able to get noodles for dinner before going to bed. The queen sized bed was set against the window, with purple curtain. Dema snuggles on the right, feeling uneasy yet without guilt.
She reaches over him to the table switch on Dorji’s table and clicks them off into a partial orange darkness. She falls on Dorji’s bare bosom more deliberately that by discomfort.
“You are heavier than I thought.” Dorji mutters between gasps.
She whispers, “Perhaps my lifetime of grief is heavier than yours.” Dema’s answer only makes him clasp her lovingly to himself to eternity without a sense of guilt.
The world around explodes away into the cataclysmic moment of romance. Dorji and Dema was enveloped into the black hole where neither past not future could be recalled.
XIV. Epilogue: Bracing the New Day
A soft knock on the door echoes through the bedroom. The room suddenly is brightly lit with brighter orange brilliance. Dema gets startled as she staggers to rub her eyes to adjust to the light. The knock taps again. She remembers Dorji had been with her in the bed. She walks to the latrine and peeps into an empty room. She turns the door knob anticipating Dorji with a cup of tea, and opens it slowly.
“Bed tea Ma’am?’’ Dorji wasn’t there. A man in a white suit smiles widely at her and proffers her a steaming cup of coffee. She lifts the cup, leaving the saucer on the tray and closes the door, thanking the man quickly.
On the table she finds a note and five thousand ngultrum notes. The handwritten note reads: ‘When we know the limits of our desire, we rejoice the beauty of every moment we live. Please do not regret the time spent. Everyone have their past, it’s in living the present without dirtying with past. You are very beautiful both in and out.
Thank you for your company and good heart. I hope I did not hurt you my friend. Best moments are made by our own efforts, not by another. Please return to your son, and find ways to manage your life for better future. I will drop by in future.’
Dema sinks into the blankets and sobs hard into it, more out of joy than the jeopardy of the past. She finds herself awakened to a new day. She feels younger, stronger and happier as she walks out of the Panda’s Lodge an hour later.
