I spent my early childhood
in a small border town called Gomtu in southern Bhutan. It is known for its
cement factories and cement export to India. It is a typical border town of
Bhutan with a magnificent gate guarding its entrance. Designed in classic
Bhutanese style, colored red in traditional dye, it had the national emblem,
the peaceful dragon painted on it.
This gate had a permanent
police outpost where everything that came in or went out was thoroughly
verified and documented. Trucks laden with cement and other commercial goods would
queue up in front of this gate and wait for hours for the verification to
complete before they crossed over into India. I liked to spend my time
observing these trucks and their occupants. Fortunately for me, we stayed in a
small apartment in a building very close to the gate. Every afternoon, when my
mom took her post lunch siesta, I would sit on the window sill, dangle my legs
outside, press my face on the bars and babble at the passersby. When there was
no one on the road, I would sit and stare at the tea garden across the barbed
wire border fencing. I was three or maybe four years old then.
While awaiting border
permit, the truck drivers and their helps would clean up their vehicles and
check out the mechanics. I remembered many of the trucks by their appearance,
owing to the regularity of their trips. There was one old truck, which seemed
to me like a bald eagle. Its orange hood had the shape of an eagle’s beak.
There was another which was a lustrous green with a red colored bumper. I
called it ‘Mother Kali’ because it looked like the dark goddess with her blood
thirsty tongue hanging out. I would eagerly await the arrival of this truck, it
was my favorite.
My favorite truck was
driven by a big man who wore patched khakis. He had a young help, a boy of
twelve or thirteen, a lanky fellow with a mop of disheveled curly hair on his
head and a boisterous sway in his gait. The boy would always be in
exceptionally high spirits. He would sing out Nepali movie numbers at the top
of his voice. He had a hoarse voice, but that did not stop him for singing.
More than once his rasping cacophony had disturbed the peace in this little
town and had drawn angry protestations from the nearby buildings. Nevertheless,
this guy fascinated me no end. The energy around him, the enthusiasm he
projected was infectious. He seemed, like a guy who has thrown all caution to
the air, a free spirit who cannot be tamed.
But it was not always that
he would be his happy self. The drivers and the other helper boys would make it
a point to bully him. Being the smallest of the lot, he would be the butt of
most of their jokes and more often than not, would be shoved around by the
bigger boys. I still remember the day a fight broke out between him and a
bigger guy. The older fellow threw him around like a rag doll and degraded him
with foul language. But the little fellow kept coming back at him. His
otherwise happy face contorted in indignation and hurt, with tears of anger and
exasperation streaming down his face, he kept on throwing himself at the bigger
guy, only to be pinned down again and again. I remember feeling distraught
seeing the suffering of the little fellow. How I wished I could go out and help
him in his fight.
I would watch him with
rapt attention as he washed the truck or changed its tyre. He would
effortlessly slide underneath the truck, to position a jack for hoisting the
vehicle. He would then loosen the bolts from the tyre one by one, stomping on
a long handled wrench. Finally he would unscrew the bolts and heave the wheel
out of the axle. I would stare amazed at how the wiry little fellow would
dexterously roll out the spare, heave it up into position, and screw the nuts.
Then he would fix the wrench onto the nuts, hoist himself up onto its long
handle and tighten the nut using his own weight. His lean figure standing atop
the wrench with a distant look in his eyes is one of the most enduring images among
my childhood memories.
__________________________________________
As I tighten the final
screw on the spare tyre, I stumble upon this very dear memory from the past. We
are returning from a party at a road-side dhaba. It’s completely dark on
the highway. There’s wilderness on both sides of the road. The nearest
habitation is nowhere in sight. It certainly is not the best of places to have
a flat tyre.
As we resume our journey,
I am reminded of the little guy with a mop of curly hair, standing atop a
wrench with a distant look in his eyes. I never met him; I don’t even remember
what they used to call him. Yet as I realize today, I had developed a kinship
with him. There was a strong bond that lay somewhere, which united us both. It
was as if we were dual manifestations of the same spirit. He was just an older manifestation
of my own self.
Today he reminds me of Sinbad;
hero of the high seas, the indomitable spirit of adventure standing atop the
mast of his ship; his turban fluttering in the wind, his grizzled face grim, and
his eyes searching the horizon for hint of land.
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