Letter from Son

Mr. Penjore receives an epistle on one of the afternoons. It is hazy afternoon and the hectic lunch makes it somniferous. When their messenger comes in, he collects letter lethargically. The temperature is high and fans are dangling over head calling for the power. ‘BPC,’ utters Penjore spreading lapels of his gho. Afternoon office hour for him is drowsy. He keeps the letter casually on his lacquered desk not even daring to read. Penjore looks up to the fans, the source of relief against scalding heat. He leans back against the cushioned chair.

‘Hmm…the address is correct,’ hums Penjore to himself. Heavily, he stretches his dexterous left hand to pick up the letter and sees something scribbled at the back side of an envelope.

‘From your son?’ reads Penjore with an unusual frown. It enervates him instantly. There seems no comfort in leaning against thick cushion. Penjore tries hard to predict the sender. He thinks that it must be his friends trying to prank and make his dull noon lively. Penjore, father of three gorgeous daughters giggles and opens the letter conscientiously. With curiosity at its climax, he reads the letter with an utmost attention. It reads:

Dear Father,

I am sorry if I ever don’t deserve to address you as father. It is how I was made to understand through all my road of education that parents, irrespective of their conduct, are still parents. With these instincts, I am quite confident that you wouldn't mind my reference you as father. Though you never fathered me, you are still my dad.

When I was in sixth grade, I knew the meaning of the word ‘Bastard’ (too young at my age to contemplate) when one of my seniors referred me as ‘the bastard.’ Thank you, you taught me words beyond my reach.

As per my birth certificate, I was born on 25^th July, 1986 in small, remote village at Pemagatshel. My mom, Thukten Choden has brought me up to all this way. She had woven clothes (more than an ordinary woman can weave) for my education. I was brought up indifferently like those who have masculine earners. There were no genuine financial shortcomings in my schooling. I had all what school’s norm demanded and everything was smooth despite few unavoidable falls (which I believe happens to affluent children too). Through her strenuous effort and immortal determination, I got to learn many lessons. We educated thinktanks should not ever underestimate poor, uneducated, vulnerable to many lecherous masculine folks, and dull village woman. I got to learn that as much as opulent sections have their way of celebration, penury folks do.

When I was in 10^th grade, there was an open essay competition in my district. The topic they selected was ‘the role model of my life.’ You know, I wrote about you. You were my role model for all these years. Sometimes, I wonder myself thinking the lessons I learnt without you. Had you been with me, I wouldn’t have learnt these things. You have been a great teacher and still you are. I wrote about how you taught me to be a man when it’s age to be a child. You taught me to be emotionally strong whenever I have to fill your name in CVs. People often called me ‘Golapo’s son’ and I trained myself to remain calm as I don’t actually become what they call me. Few friends, when they were angry, called me bastard. I swallowed the word and later it was easy to accept the word. Whenever I had shopping to do in faraway places, I used to go with my friend’s dad. Your absence taught me the alternative uses. Anyways, this is all I wanted you to know. I am doing fine and as news, I graduated recently and now I am a simple teacher. I convinced my mom to spend rest of her life with me and she does fine with me.

Lastly, you must know that I am not against what you have done. The society you grew must have added value over you. I would like to wish you success in every plan you draw. Under the grace of the God, may you have happy life!

With Love,

Yours Son.

P.S: I would be grateful if you could send your new ID photocopy to Punakha HSS.

Sweats trickling through his cheeks, Penjore folds letter exactly the same. The UPS under his desk beeps time and again. He kicks the UPS hard enough to disconnect. ‘Huh,’ says Penjore. He tries to recapitulate his moments of tour to a village in Pemagatshel 27 years ago. He thinks it is too old to be in his RAM, but it comes like it was just yesterday. He finds 10,000 he paid to Thukten is too less to bring up a boy. The light comes and he connects to his monitor. The screen warns him about his rough shutting down. He taps the enter button to start the computer normally and opens files randomly without an objective.