Andrà Tutto Bene: One September Morning At The Post Office

“Buongiorno! Potresti aiutarmi per favore? Sono venuto a ritirare il mio pacco da IKEA.”

(Translation: "Good morning!  Could you help me please? I came to collect my package from IKEA.”)

By the time I reached the post office this morning, I had memorised the phrase. After all, I must have repeated it at least a hundred times during the 2km walk. 

But, at the post office…

The moment the clerk at the counter returned my greeting with a “Buongiorno! Come stai?”, my well-rehearsed Italian and I collapsed like clumsily balanced Jenga pieces.

“Buongiorno! Per favore aiutarmi prosciutto? Venti mono a ritiraro IKEA mio pacca!” said your man. 

(Translation: “Good morning! Please help me ham? Twenty mono to IKEA collection my pat!”)

The clerk smiled. And then he stole my line.

“Lei parla Inglese?”, asked the kind man.

To which I replied confidently, “Si!”

making a list

Take a blank sheet of paper,
fill it with the names and ages of the dead you knew.
And when they come to you, a few years later,
to solicit your vote,
woh kaagaz dhikaadena.

Can you get into a serious accident while riding a Tobu tricycle?

Apparently, you can. Especially if you are speeding down a really steep driveway that connects with a busy road frequented by cars, buses, and trucks.

No, I didn't get hit by a bus. I didn't even make it to the main road. It all happened so quickly I didn't even have the time to say "Oops!". But like all accidents go, I remember every detail like as if it happened in slow motion.

I was halfway down the driveway when the front wheel of the plastic vehicle decided to part ways with the mothership. As you might have heard, tricycles tend to behave rather strangely when they are missing the front wheel, and mine certainly had no plans on being the exception. The two steel rods that held the wheel went ploughing into the blacktop, bringing the tricycle from 60 to 0, quite abruptly, in 2 seconds. Meanwhile, for a very, very short period of time, I was airborne. But with the road racing up to kiss me face, fast.

I felt no pain at all. Not even when I hit the road chin-first. All I remember is this bright flash of light and then, darkness. When the light came back on, I had a dull headache and the taste of metal in my mouth. And if it hadn't been for a hysterical Kelly Dorji (yeah, the same one who's an actor/model but he was only eight then), I wouldn't have known that my chin was hanging from my face and you could see bone.

Yeah, there was blood, lots of blood. And a whole lot of screaming and yelling. Numbers were dialled, parents were called, and I was rushed to the hospital.

Five stitches put my chin back where it should have been. The scabs on my face took about a month to go. And, in about another two months, we were back on that steep driveway, racing our Tobu tricycles again as if nothing had happened.

So many years have passed since then and, sometimes, I wonder if the stuff I reminisce about ever took place or am I just imagining memories.

But, on my chin there is a scar

(That's me. 9 years old, and hanging around with Chaagay, waiting for the scabs on my face to go. Thimphu, 1978) 

A Funeral Vigil

The Priest was late. Someone said he had had to stop his motorcycle to fix a flat tyre, and that he was still more than seven kilometres away.

The Army Cook was on vacation. He was surrounded by a few of his childhood friends, who hadn’t made the cut at the recruitment camp, and a bunch of kids spellbound by the tales from the battlefield he was dishing out.

Twenty feet away on the other side of the house sat the young Contractor, success clearly visible and shining on all his eight fingers. While he toyed with an unlit Classic cigarette between his fingers,the Tea Ladies, both young and the not so, offered to refill his cup more frequently than was necessary.

In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, the potatoes were overcooked. According to the Aunt From Siliguri, the aloo dum was going to be the worst the village had ever seen. So embarrassing with so many of her friends expected to arrive. And, by the way, where was that kitchen expert who was supposed be looking after the potatoes?

Behind the cowshed, a cigarette was lit. And from the crack on the door of the shithouse,a pair of eyes watched the Army Cook’s wife take a deep drag of her post-lunch cigarette.Classic.

The Priest arrived just as the clock in the living room struck four. He was two and half-hours late. His once-pristine white cassock was covered in the black-stuff-that-gets-you-whenever-your-vehicle-breaks-down. As he wiped his hands on the living room curtains, he suggested to no one in particular that they go and bring The Mother home. They would find her about six hundred metres away, near the Army Cook’s house, on the dirt track that led up to the house, trying to scoop up two kilograms of sugar from the ground with her bare hands. Paper bags have weak bottoms.

That was when the Mute, his only child, who had been keeping vigil by his cheap plywood coffin for the last twelve hours, began to weep for him.

Buying Music

The junkie had
the sweetest sounding guitar
I'd ever heard.
He sold it to me for fifty bucks.
The bastard cheated me.
He never gave me the music.

STOP PRESS! My 2-track cover version of Leonard Cohen tune makes it to someone's Top 5 list!

http://www.covermesongs.com/2013/08/five-good-covers-tower-of-song.html
+Sonam Tashi +manoj pandey  +SERINA SITLING +Anirban Sen +Anirban Mukherjee +Navin Theeng +Susie Romero +shalini dam +Bernadette Rai +mandira sikand +Thuli Hangma

I didn't make up the title.