Angel in Disguise

One windy morning in August, the earliest would be passenger arrived at Bumthang-Mongar bus terminal ticketing counter at about quarter to six. He wore a well-ironed cotton serthra gho with a neatly folded lagay and collar ghong. His immaculate disposition but belied his sodden looks that was suffused with lines of worry on his brow. His hair was dusty and unkempt. As he leaned over the counter his eyes lit up with a streak of joy on seeing the counter clerk. He managed to smile for an introduction.

‘Is there a ticket for Monger sir?’ he enquired between gasp of anxious breath.

‘Yes but it’s all reserved by others, you may have to wait,’ counter boy explained. ‘Perhaps someone may cancel and….’

The man pursed his lips and nodded to say something but didn’t. He stood aside for sometime fiddling his rosary as if it was a talisman of good luck. People began to throng the terminus in ones and twos. As minutes passed to hour he became impatient. ‘Hope someone changes his mind,’ he prayed silently. A little later he joined behind the queue at the counter.

‘Sir, sir,’ he called over the queue desperate to know if anyone cancelled.

The counter clerk heard him, ‘Two tickets left; we have to wait a little while for them to come.’

‘Sir!’ He implored earnestly, ‘please will you understand me; I really have to go today please. My wife is ill at home. She needs me.’ The clerk stared helplessly at him unable to say anything.

A woman came and took one ticket. He stood there becoming more worried. ‘Listen, I’ve been asked to wait and I’ve waited for almost two hours now. You must arrange me one anyhow.’ He insisted.

‘These tickets were booked since yesterday by my boss and I can’t do anything.’ Saying thus the clerk resumed work, his fingers tapping on an electronic calculator.

The other day, after an exigency call from Tangmachu Hospital Lopen Tshering had left for Bumthang from Trongsa in the afternoon in a PWD truck which was loaded with firewood. They had arrived that morning. He had not slept throughout the night and presently was feeling sick and drowsy.

Lopen knpcked on the counter bars, ‘Look, my wife is dying and I,’ He tried to explain his woe. He felt like strangling the clerk for ignoring his plea, ‘You must do me some favour.’ The clerk was adamant not to give him the last ticket. Lopen’s last hope vanished when the last ticket was taken by an elderly man. Lopen pleaded for a standing ticket as a last resort.

‘We’ve strict orders from RSTA, we can’t do that.’ The clerk had no authority to favour lopen.

‘I shall go standing then.” Lopen declared angrily and stormed out of the terminus to the parking lot. He tried to make arrangement with the driver who denied request with a harsh answer, “You educated lot very well know the rule. I can’t take the risk.’

The DCM truck parked at the far corner fired its engine as lopen turned. With fresh hopes he sprinted towards the truck and inquired the destination of the truck to the driver. ‘We’ll go till Thrumshingla, for logging ‘the driver explained politely, ‘you are going to Mongar? It’s difficult to get lift in other vehicles from there.’ Lopen thanked him and retraced his steps to the terminus again. There was only ten or so minutes left for the departure of Monger bound bus. People began boarding the bus. They smiled at him as their eyes met. He smiled reluctantly out of Bhutanese courtesy.

Lopen walked to and fro impatiently. He was beginnining to get annoyed at everything. He wanted to blaspheme the entire place, the system, the counter boy and the passengers as well for not leaving a ticket for him. If he did blaspheme it would be from expediency of his circumstances and not from principle. He wanted to revile god who made his wife ill and made him to respond on the spur of the moment without the necessity of comfort.

‘I must go anyhow or I will be late.’ He bit his lips to hold back tears of desperation. He slung his bag over the shoulder and hopped towards the bus. Just as the bus began to move he banged hard on the bus door, irritably.

  ‘Tickets please.’ The conductor asked from the window of the closed door; extending one greasy hand. ‘It’s an emergency sir, here-‘he took out some notes, ‘I will pay you double the fare.’

‘Sorry la, I can’t do that.’ Saying the conductor withdrew his hand. The driver revved the engine and gave a sharp echoing honk for departure. Lopen saw two traffic policemen approach the bus from the terminus gate. He approached them as humbly as he could and asked if he could board the bus.

‘Can’t you something? My wife is very ill in Tangmachhu hospital.’ He explained.

‘No,no. The rules are strict here. We can’t be of any help if you got no ticket. Better reserve for tomorrow.’ One of them answered with a rehearsed phrase.

Unable to do anything and greatly disheartened, Lopen slammed his fist on the bus. The policemen gave him a stern look. The bus began to gear towards the gate.He stood immobile, watching his only hope disappearing. As he closed his eyes and sat down he heard the bus screech to a halt, but he ignored it. He staggered towards the Bar outside the gate with a leaden heart.’This isn’t happening to me, it is just another bad dream.’ He imagined. “ My wife wasn’t ill and nobody is worried-‘ He remembered the phone call and came out of his reverie.

‘ All right! One peg of whiskey and I will forget everything. No! I must not drink again. When was the last time I touched the bottle? Fifteen years?’ Lopen was in dilemma. He wished he would wake up in his room and would hear the cacophony break by his window as the children went to school for another day.

Lopen was about to order for his drink when he heard a man’s voice from behind. “ Lopen la; lopen.’ He turned to face a stranger.

‘Kuzuzangpo la.’ The stranger wore a mathra gho. He bowed slightly almost blushing. He was half the years younger than Lopen.

‘Kuzuzangpo.’ Lopen replied, staring suspiciously at the stranger.

‘I’m Damchu la’

‘Damchu?’ Lopen frowned trying to recall. The bus honked. He thought the bus had left and wondered why it was still out there.

‘ Damchu from Damthang la; I was your student.’

Lopen Tshering raised his brow in bewilderment; ‘ Are you Damchu Damthangpa? Where are you nowadays?’

‘Lopen there is no time for explanation. My co-passenger in the bus told me you were here since morning. Lopen’s Aum is ill or something at home. I looked for you in the terminus too.’ Lopen’s mind was floundering in the sea of tribulation. He sat there as if in a dream, unable to speak anything. Damchu shoved his ticket into lopen’s shaky hands; ‘Please hurry. You take my seat. I shall come tomorrow morning, I’m not in haste.’

‘What?’ Lopen could barely utter another word as Damchu dragged him humbly out to the bus. Damchu seated lopen in his seat, excused the passengers briefly and jumped off the bus with a leather briefcase stuck under his arm.

As the bus glided forward, as if across the blue sky, Lopen Tshering had a difficult time trying to separate feelings of joy and perplexity. Warm tears of joy coursed down his wrinkled and weathered face. He had even forgotten to thank the kind soul. He waved through the window to the angel with a grateful smile that showed every line on his ageing face. He thanked god and closed his eyes as if to sleep eternally.