(Good people in my
life-II)
“Does your stepfather treat you well?”
“You should hit him on the head when he is asleep.”
“Why don’t you go and live with your ani?”
Some people in my village diligently let me know that the
man in my family was not my father, and that he would treat me bad. I was only
over three years old to understand anything but they made me into a suspicious
little boy. It was their usual rustic way of having fun; teaching me all the
tricks to challenge my stepfather.
I would happily report to them, “He is scared of me.” Because
my stepfather wouldn’t hurt a fly I really thought he was rather scared of me. I
wish they had taught something good, or just nothing at all, so I would have
thought he was my father or at least as someone who wouldn’t hurt me. I regret
having never called him apa. I didn’t
even call him aku. I would call him
by his name until I was much older.
His real name was Phub Tshewang, which only our grandmother
fancied, rest called him Aatsho. A serious infection in his childhood had left
him limping. He was a natural introvert who mostly had nothing to say. But he had
another dimension to him through which he was capable of expressing himself; he
was a man of many skills.
He was homeschooled by his tyrant father who taught him religious
scriptures, tailoring, carpentry, and the art of making torma. This set of skills made him one of the most sort-after
persons in the village. Perhaps he must have been the only person in the
village with such versatility, a man who was useful across all seasons.
Though his earnings kept us well fed in the village, we have
had difficult times meeting my school expenses when I grew up enough to need a
pair of leather shoes and sports shoes simultaneously. In village we all wore those
greenish Chinese canvas shoes, which came for Nu.120, but he understood I
couldn’t take those to school. One evening he returned from the town with a
pair of sport shoes for me worth Nu.700. It broke my heart, because that was a
lot of money in the village and I knew how hard he toiled to save so much, but those
were the moment that helped me become a responsible youth. I gingerly wore the
shoes for many years.
When I reached high school he started communicated with me
more, more than to anybody in his entire life. One evening when he didn’t
return from woods, we were so worried at home. We had even planned to go
searching for him if only we knew which direction he went to because he
wouldn’t tell anyone. He didn’t need company. After dark when he finally returned
appearing so casual and took his place near the fire, my mother shouted at him
for not informing us about the late arrival. He gave a few words explanation.
After she went to bed he quietly called me and showed me his leg. He was in
extreme pain. His axe slipped of a log and hit his already limping leg and left
a deep gaping wound. He lost much blood. Though freaked out, I carefully nursed
his wound and put him to bed. He told to keep it between us. Since then
there were lots of things that were kept between just the two of us.
When I had my first girlfriend I showed him her picture and
told him everything about her but he laughed at the picture and told me she
looked like a sick horse because she was thin and fair. He rather had another
girl on his mind for me, a huge wrestler like girl in the neighbourhood. I
laughed at his choice too. We were gradually beginning to understand each
other.
But he never let me or my brothers touch his tools. He
didn’t pass down any of his arts to us. He never wanted us to learn his arts
and live his life. He always told us that life would be easier if we rather
went to school and used books as our tools. All three sons in the family grew
without any of his skills, but his bigger plan worked. We all completed our
schooling.
When I was in college first year he came to meet me with some
stuff my mother had sent. He had sent a boy to call me behind the college
building, thinking I would be embarrassed if he came limping in front of my
friends. His shyness and being a loner must have been because of his
disability. But I couldn’t be bothered; I took him around and show him my
college. I saw pride beaming in his eyes as he scanned the Dzong-like structure
of my college.
One of the first things I was going to do after I began
earning was to take my stepfather for treatment and give him the comfort of
walking without having to limp and wear any kind of shoes. But just one year
short of my graduation he passed away. He must have suffered for a long time
but he never disclosed it to my mother, if only I was around he would have told
me and I would have taken him to hospital on time. He rather went to his
mother’s place and died peacefully. More than ten years have passed since but I
still couldn’t fully overcome his death. I live the regrets that he never truly
knew how I felt about him, I had only begun to open up with him and he
left.
A few years after his death I became a stepfather myself and
that’s when I found a new purpose in life and that’s when I found him again in
my stepson. Over the years I realised that the best thing my stepfather taught
me was the delicate art of being a good stepfather. Jigme was a much better
stepson than I had ever been; he knew I was his stepfather yet called me dad. Our
affection flowed naturally; stepson to stepson.
Some good people never cease to love you and guide you, not even after their death.
