As the seasons cycled through the years, four little
souls danced around the hearth of our family, cocooned in the warmth of our
parents' love. My eldest sister, a precious gem, found her nurturing sanctuary
in the embrace of our maternal grandparents at Murbi. Her days were painted in
the hues of their care, while I, just three years her senior, was not yet of an
age to assist in tending to my immediate brother, Tshering.
In those days when our parents were away, my elder
sister stepped into the role of guardian, watching over us with a vigilant eye.
Yet, my fondest memories centered around my youngest brother, Sangay. He was
the bundle of joy who filled our home with his tender presence. With my
newfound responsibility as the designated babysitter, I eagerly piggybacked
him, cherishing the moments when his laughter filled the air.
However, Sangay's early days were marked by fragility.
My mother's complications during his birth had prevented him from nursing, and
he was nourished by a humble wheat flour solution, a form of porridge. His
cries, incessant and shrill, tested my patience. On one harrowing occasion, my
frustration reached its peak. I held him to my back, and in my exasperation, I
shook him violently. Fate intervened, sparing him from serious harm, as he
narrowly missed colliding with the corner of our wooden wall, a stone bearing
the mark of a few tiny hairs, a chilling reminder of what could have been.
The memories of that near tragedy still sent shivers
down my spine, a testament to the delicate balance between youthful folly and
guardian responsibility. In another youthful escapade, my sister and I sought
refuge in the attic of our home, leaving Tshering to search for us below. Our
playful antics turned sour when a misaimed missile of sand, turned rock, struck
him on the forehead, causing a profuse bleeding that stained our innocent play
with guilt. Our father's sudden return unveiled the aftermath of our
mischievous deeds. He meted out justice to my sister, but the weight of guilt
settled upon my young shoulders as I wrestled with the knowledge that my stone
had struck my brother.
Yet, amid these trials and tribulations, we were not
devoid of beautiful and joyous memories. My youngest brother and I were our
late grandfather's darlings, and we slumbered by his side. He showered us with
gifts and treats from his travels, filling our hearts with boundless joy.
One wintry night, as the land lay barren beneath the
radiant winter moon, my friends and I, joined by Tshering, engaged in the
timeless game of "Doegor," tossing pairs of circular stones across a
moonlit expanse. In a moment of unintentional mishap, my stone found an
unexpected target: Tshering's nose, causing it to bleed profusely. Panic set in
as I rushed him beneath our playground, tending to his wound in secret.
However, my mother soon discovered our misadventure, and in her customary way,
she sought to discipline us first.
I, fearing her wrath, took flight, hurling a stone in
desperation, which found its unintended mark on her hat. In hindsight, I
recognize the folly of my actions and the pain I must have caused my mother. My
regret lingers to this day, an unfulfilled desire to erase that moment of
thoughtless rebellion.
These memories, a tapestry of childhood, are etched
into the fabric of my being, a blend of laughter and tears, joy and remorse.
They remind me of the complexity of family bonds, the interplay of love and
discipline, and the enduring lessons learned on the journey from innocence to
maturity.
From the earliest age, our parents instilled in us the
virtues of responsibility, teaching us life's essential lessons with unwavering
determination. At the break of dawn, when the world was still wrapped in the
embrace of dreams, my sister and I were assigned our morning duties. She would
assume the role of the family's culinary artist, crafting meals that would
nourish our bodies and spirits. Meanwhile, my task was to sweep the floors,
cleansing our humble abode and offering water as a symbol of reverence to the Triple Gem in
Buddhism.
My younger brother, Tshering, undertook the duty of
maintaining the cleanliness of our surroundings. These responsibilities might
seem trifling, but in the eyes of our parents, they were the building blocks of
character, the foundations upon which a virtuous life would be constructed.
Yet, in the quiet moments before dawn, when the bed
still cradled the allure of sleep, I yearned for those fleeting moments of
slumber. Rising from the warmth of our blankets to confront the cold reality of
chores was a daily battle. At times, it took more than a gentle nudge from my
mother to jolt us from our dreams. Her reminders echoed like a gentle whisper
at first, but when they went unheard, she wielded the tools of discipline –
sticks, and kicks, in equal measure, to rouse us from our lingering drowsiness.
And so, we embarked on our daily chores, acknowledging
them as the rhythm of our lives, as ordinary as the sun's ascent. Beyond the
boundaries of our home lay the jungle, where we ventured to gather firewood,
connecting with nature's gifts and the essence of self-sufficiency.
During the daylight hours, our daily routines were scripted
according to our capabilities. Playtime was a luxury we couldn't often afford.
We were bound by the responsibilities that were assigned to us, the strict
regimen imposed by the needs of our family. Childhood's freedom, as many know
it today, remained a distant dream on many occasions.
As the sun dipped behind Bumpalog Valley, a signal for
the day's work to come to an end, we turned our attention once more to our
familial duties. In the evenings, my sister would stoke the hearth, the glowing
heart of our home, and prepare dinner should my mother be delayed returning from
her laborious work. My role was to stack firewood neatly beside the hearth and
ensure that every bottle in the house brimmed with water, a testament to our
readiness for the night.
However, the evening held its own allure, an
enchanting time when our neighboring friends returned from their own endeavors.
The farmland became a meeting ground, and the air resonated with laughter,
songs, and the camaraderie of childhood. The dried corn stems left in the
fields would serve as the foundation for our evening entertainment, igniting
fires that mirrored the flames of our youthful exuberance.
In the midst of these jovial moments, I often strayed
from my evening duties, swayed by the temptations of play, music, and the
company of friends. These lapses in responsibility, while inconsequential to my
youthful mind, held greater significance for my parents. They carried the
weight of their expectations for our future, and when my mother's stern
admonitions failed to set me back on the path of duty, her chastisement, though
painful, was just.
Reflecting on those days from the vantage point of
adulthood, I now understand the profound love and sacrifice my parents made. In
the innocence of youth, I may not have comprehended the full extent of their
toil and sacrifice, but as a grown-up person myself, I carry a profound debt of
gratitude for the lessons they imparted, the values they instilled, and the
foundation they laid for the person I would become. Those humble chores, the
discipline, and even the admonishments were gifts of love, woven into the tapestry
of our family's story, a legacy that continues to shape my life to this day.
