Foreword: During the
last four to six months, many of my friends have reminded me that I have
stopped blogging. These friends are quite a few to name. Then one afternoon,
Rajesh Kafley Bhai trooped into my office with his complete family – a wife, a
son and a daughter. Only missing was his dog! Despite some age gap, Rajesh and
I have become near friends. He even offered to host me at his place in Bangkok,
the next time I am passing through!
‘Daju, why
have you stopped writing? asked Rajesh. That reignited my passion for writing. I
am also grateful to my many ‘followers’ for reading and liking my musings. My
friends Madan and Bhawana even print and share my stories with their colleagues
at WWF. They told me so!
Here is my
new story. Sorry for the delay.
I first met Tara about two decades ago. Perhaps a
little earlier than that. Tara was one of the trainees in a skills development
programme I was coordinating in the nineties. We met in the training halls of
Changzamtog Industrial Service Centre, Thimphu. Tara and I are of about the
same age. As village elders of yore put it, Tara and I have probably worn out
the same number of half pants. Tara is as old as Dolma Enterprise in Thimphu.
One of the few things that has continued in the
same place for decades, Dolma Enterprise is the oldest firms retailing
household white goods in Thimphu.
By the time our second son was due, my wife and I
decided to buy a washing machine. To a mid-level civil servant, anything that
cost more than a few thousand ngultrums was expensive. My take-home salary at
the turn of the 21st century was hardly ten grands. So,
affording a luxury that was equivalent to my entire monthly salary was a big deal!
When my wife was ready with our second son, I had
not yet recovered from the heavy ‘nappy laundering’ from the upbringing of my
elder son. Unlike many civil servants, we didn’t have the luxury of our parents
staying with us and babysitting their grandchildren.
Those were the days of reusable nappies (simply thangna). Disposables such as Huggies,
Poko Pants, etc. were not readily available and expensive in Bhutan. So, most
parents of my time and income used soft cotton clothes as reusable nappies. I
always tell my colleagues that most (if not every) things in life are relative.
There is always someone who is better off, worse off, taller, shorter, more
handsome, less smart, etc. than you! Relative to his dad, who used ‘bhatay ko paat’ (broad leaves of a rough
hardy plant) for post-excretion cleaning, my elder son used imported muslin
to wipe his arse!
They say giving birth is one of the most painful
things to do. When our elder son was born, my wife had fulfilled her obstetric responsibility.
It was a partnership, after all! Thereafter, it was my duty to do the cooking,
washing and laundering. I would be so tired and drenched by the end of each day
that I would collapse on my bed over a bottle of beer. That’s until the little
one woke up in the middle of the night. I didn’t have the mammary glands to
feed the baby, but it was my accountability to maneuver the mommy breasts and
put the tit(s) into my son’s mouth. My wife would be half awake!
Thus, when my wife dutifully delivered our second
son in 2003 – I went into labour pains.
Not the biological pain, but the reliving of the physical pain of laundering,
washing, cleaning, cooking and caring. The excitement of having a second son –
so much valued in our partisan culture – was drowned in perceived tiredness.
One spring day in the year of the Ram, we decided
to buy our first washing machine. A couple of months earlier, my sister-in-law
had bought a Samsung Karisma. We followed suit and brought Karisma home riding
on the back of a Maruti Van from Dolma. Tara installed the machine at the
corner of our cave like bathroom, showed us how to balance the knobs and left.
 |
| My Karisma |
I soon realised that Karisma would not do what I
had to do. The chocolatey, starchy poop that new born babies produce was not
designed for Karisma’s delicate rumblings. I had to first remove the chocolate
from the re-usable nappies and hand them over to Karisma to twist and turn
them.
Between 2003 to end 2017 Karisma served us well. And
I conveniently forgot Tara. I often met him in town or saw him on Facebook. But
there was simply no need for us to meet. Winter of 2017-2018 was a momentous
year for me. My seven-year-old in the making apartment was delivered and I had
to move house. Changzamtog to Kala Bazar is hardly a kilometer, but Karisma’s
old frame could not take the journey too well. Two days after moving in, I
connected Karisma to her power line and twisted her knobs. She emitted grrrrr, a
rusty sound and refused to work.
‘Try
opening and closing the door’, my wife advised me. At home, wives know everything,
even if they have half the educational and external experiences of their worse-halves.
Before I could digest her instructions, my wife was already behind me to check
if I was following her advice.
‘Open the
lid and close it, I said’, she reminded me. I did that and Karisma threw
out about a litre of water from her exterior before ‘grrring’ to a stop.
I needed Tara. Where is he? I called up a young
distant relative of mine, who once used to work with Tara at Dolma and asked
for Tara’s number. Two days later, Tara came to my place with a heavy bag laden
with mechanical tools and equipment.
After twisting and turning the knobs in different
combinations for about 15 minutes, Tara decided to open and peek into Karisma.
Together, we wrestled Karisma to the floor upside down and Tara started his
surgery. After about half an hour, Karisma was on her feet again. Tara poured
some water into her, fiddled with her knobs and in a while, Karisma was
working. Again! My old mate of fourteen
years was back to life. She is working to this day!
Tara is starting to grey. The thick bush of hair
over his upper lips showed traces of salt and pepper. I thanked him and mPayed
two thousand ngultrum into his Bhutan National Bank account. I knew I had been
generous. He acknowledged it, finished the cup of ginger tea my wife had
offered him and left. In the background,
we could hear Karisma swirling in the bathroom. She had a backlog of clothes to
finish.
How much
does Tara earn? Why has he not started something on his own? Is he happy? ‘Entrepreneurs are not born, they are bred’,
a mantra I had picked up two decades ago as an entrepreneurship trainer, rang
through my mind long after I closed the door after Tara.
