WAB, how I forgot this. This age is truly eating up my passion. It has given me platform to express whenever I wanted. Who knows I could have even be dead from suffocation. People would have said I died peacefully at night. Some would have presumed I had heart attack. Who knows the truth could have been I died from the cause of not expressing myself on this page. I must not take that chance again. I just don’t want to die not writing here. People might find it funny of such reason. Even if it has less than zero percent of dying, I must not take that chance. I think of writing one love story, a very short one, just to keep me alive.
Dorji was around seven years old, the same age as Dema when they happened to travel to Samdrup Jongkhar in the same bus. In 1980s up to late 1990s, the bus was the only mode of commute for the travelers. “It is vomiting comet,” one writer said. But it was the bus that they traveled together that time.
Their fathers hitched the ride from different places. They did not know each other. It was a packed bus, literally. There were people collapsed on the floor, some even slipped below the seats. Many were standing cramped. The driver was their god because he had the most comfortable seat in that bus. And they traveled.
I tend to think, for the sake of this story, that Dorji and Dema were very close to each other, each clinging onto their fathers for fear of losing or getting separated. They were young and innocent students in the winter break that their most anticipated dream of reaching Samdrup Jongkhar was about to get realized. I am not sure whether they met their eyes. I assume even God would not be able to say that. It was the bus full of passengers. The journey ended safely. People at that time commented their fate led them safely.
Yes, fate. I consider it now after two decades later.
Dorji, 27, has become a young man. He is handsome, educated and has a secured job. For the last three years his commitment to work did not allow him to go to his home town. After spending a week long in his village, he bid good bye to his relatives and hit the road to Samdrup Jongkhar. He took the bus. “Vomiting comet” has become the story of past. The bus is new and comfortable. He was happy at his decision for not bringing on his personal car. Ah! He got the empty seat too.
Lots of memories flashed by as distance tend to shorten by inches. The bus screeched to take in some passengers. He felt the jot and looked around. He saw a lady coming in. She sat near him. Our own Dema, two decades back, remember?
Their conversation began softly as strangers and developed furiously upon exchanging the development facets happening around the country. They were amazed they did not think such comfortable bus would ever ply on that road. Each had similar memories to share which they did. But none could fathom their experiences revolved on the same date they traveled together, two decades ago. I told you, even gods would not know that.
But it was the fate that came second time unnoticed to each of them that they should travel together. The only difference this time was, they fell in love each other and are the parents of two lovely children. It is sad, even their kids would not know their parents’ first endeavor. Such is the fate that happens around us.
Sometimes I believe the fate or destiny or whatever is happening around us all the time. Whether we notice it at that time or not is beyond my imagination. But the fate, I think it is always there for us. The truth, sorry, the hypothetical truth, can be as relative as the story of Dorji and Dema.
Ah! I must stop here for I am confirmed I can live another day. So long, readers.