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The Lost Treasure

posted Apr 5, 2015, 10:48 PM by Chador Wangmo   [ updated Apr 5, 2015, 10:51 PM ]

The story, greatest lost is a story of something precious, in fact the greatest treasure I had lost. The day my treasure; my mom passed away is the most unforgettable one…”

It was one of the hot summer evenings; I was back from school, to find a tragedy at home, the unbearable tragedy, yet the most sentimental one. I rushed home as soon as the classes got over to check the status of my mom’s health. She was sick for last three months and was sent back home since the doctors could not save her any more. The last one week of her stay was spent at home.

I was just eight years old and was too innocent that I did not know to stay with mom, rather concerned about my classes. On that day (5th day of third month), according to Bhutanese calendar, my mom begged me, not to go to school, to which I sturdily refused due to the fear that my teachers might punish me. I knew that my mom would leave us one day, but did not know that she would leave me without bidding ‘good bye’ but it so happened, which stroke my heart. It was a greatest turn-down I ever experienced since my existence in this world.

My mom was struck dumb by her sickness for last one week and on that morning of the day she died she struggled to pour out her last words to us. She spoke a word, pulled her shirt, put into her mouth and kept for around two minutes, to accumulate the breath to speak. This process continued for around ten minutes to complete one short sentence; “Chado, don’t go to school today. Stay with Ama.” Yet I refused though I could see my sister (eldest in my siblings) crying over my mom. Later I heard that when I was away for school, mom tried to speak some more words, but that time, just a phrase; an incomplete sentences like; ‘apple alu(child), banana alu, where she meant to tell to give the apples and bananas that she had to me. Those toiled group of words still haunts me and brings tear to my eye and moreover, refusing her words hurts me a lot, though I did out of innocence.

When I was back to home that evening, there were few neighbors helping my parents. I didn’t ask why they were there rather directly headed towards my mom’s bed room but sadly she wasn’t there. I longed to see her but there was just a Kishuthara (a traditional kira, worn by Bhutanese women) being made like a hospital screen. My dad was sitting next to it, with an ocean full of tears in his eyes. I didn’t know that my mom’s soulless body was kept inside the screen. I believed in my dad’s words saying that my mom went to Thimphu for further checkup since several health specialists were coming from America. He also said that there’s a wooden piece kept inside the Kishuthara screen, to represent mom’s presence in order to assure a fast recovery of her health.

Then, dad went out, instructing me to stay near that screen, but without peeping into the screen. I nodded in agreement, yet was too excited to hear that my mom will be coming back home soon with better health. So I slipped into the screen and hugged the thing my dad called a wooden piece. I could feel the touch of my mom’s body and in excitement, unwrapped the white cloth piece straight away, to check what was in. To my surprise, it was my mom’s soulless body lying there and I became numb. However, I wrapped the dead body again, and pretended as if I have seen nothing when my dad returned. This was the only satisfying work I could do to reduce tension in my family members, yet the certain toiled group of words my mom spoke keeps on haunting me. I miss u my dear mom. I am sorry I just couldn’t do anything for you.

            Chador Wangmo ( Teacher)

 

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