Sunday, 6 May 2012

Her Identity


Its  10:00 am, I am inside a bus, Dhug Transport Service, with the beautiful background, the hills, the falls, and fluttering prayer flags at faraway distance, my bus moves softly playing with every cross and turns on the road. 


It’s a coaster bus, comfortable with sweet music from my behind, a Bhutanese song with nice background music of traditional guitar and an elderly lady on peak of her sweet voice.

Day is so beautiful with sun moving towards its western destination and with watermarked moon watching the moving sun and white clouds morphs  into different creatures like shape that decorated the heaven above us.


With relish filled inside and my mind flying high, with a kind of whisper in my heart, I sing.  I loved getting out for sometimes and wish I could plug the moon from the sky and place it near the juvenile sun, catch hold that snow like clouds and pour it on the crown of hill and make it as a show capped hills.

Sited beside me is a lady in her mid thirties, slim with luminous black hair touching her cheeks and flowing till her thigh, dressed in blue kira and a yellowish tego (Bhutanese National dress), her face fair and moist  with a small mole neatly decorated her chin.


She laid silent and almost motion less, just clearing her eyes from frequent furl  of her hair with  green nail polished fingers and she kept looking out with her eyes and face painted with some kind of sorrows and sadness. I gave her frequent glances but still she was firm with just her fingers clearing her hair and blinks on her eyes and of course her heart beating.


Is she speechless? But cannot be devoid of sight, she looks out and blinks, perhaps she sees everything and her eyes perfect pair. Does she really sees or she pretending”  thought occupies my mind.


I cannot be silent on such a long journey, I have my words and tale to share even if it’s a foreigner, I try but I fail it again and again, now its thrice, “what if she do not speak, or get angry, or will I not disturb her?”  thoughts hovers me.


Now I pulled in the air, exhaled it, moistened my throat turned towards her and asked  “Hi  can I speak to you?”.


She turned her head slowly and diligently pouring her hair over and on the cannel of her right ear and clearing her face, she smiled and with low tone answered “yes sir, How may I answer you?”.


She is perfect, she can speak and hear, she got a good tongue with English but often mixed it with Hindi. I was quite confused as her looks promised me as Southern Bhutanese. However she shares a soft voice and words with some lovely taste in it.


She is not always a first mover in any conversation but she speeds and opens up once other sets the track. She seems kind, compassionate, spiritual and scholarly.


But why that sadness over her face? She opened up with eyes  red and juicy, almost to drop the tears. Lips shivering on every words and nose silently running “I cannot describe this sorrows that you see in my eyes, no word equals it, only I can tell you about me is,  I am an Indian , worked with some odd jobs in Bhutan for quite few years after the death of my husband who was a construction labour.  Yesterday through some sources I was informed that our house was burnt and my 73 years old mom suffered severe burns and died in government hospital in Banarhat, in her dying bed she muttered my name and couldn’t remember my number.  I have told my mother I work in Phuntsholing and never told kind of job I do”  With regret she cried. “ I love Bhutan and love this dress’, She pulls her kira, ‘but I couldn’t make it my identity’.


We reached Phuentsholing and everybody rushing to door for exit, at the back end seat she took off her dress put it unfolded in her old bag.  With just a simple brown wrapper, a blouse, her thin slippers, and with her head down she quietly walked down to Jaigoan. I was voiceless and stayed looking till she got blurred and disappeared in air with distance………………