Born to an aristocratic family, Lhamo, a middle-aged woman, had a habit of carrying a huge pocket fastened over her waist. When ever she visits the town, she used to carry the pocket without failure. A leggy redhead, in a black and tight jeans with a crimson shirt was at the shop today looking for some cloth pieces.
The dusk was fast taking over the city. When she was at the Chorten, they were behind the Wall hiding and peeping. When she walked down to the town, as she usually do to exhibit her callipygian, they followed unnoticed by her. When she stooped over the steps, one of them saw her nude waist and clicked to his Boss.
“We're after the money; not behind her,” his Boss in black goggles retorted. “Yes, we are,” the other complimented describing how their Boss' girl friend had demanded five lakhs Ngultrum if he is to marry her at all. “Watch her steps carefully.”
The group that followed Lhamo comprised of those drop-outs from the families' fists. They have robbed many and tonight, they were behind the middle-aged woman. “She carried the pocket and the pocket carried the money,” they thought.
Lhamo was someone who cannot make her own decisions. She was calling her husband, what colour she should choose, when they were busy discussing her. One of them, who was thin and lean said, “I want her jeans.” The other mocked him saying both of his legs would befit in one of the holes of the jeans.
Even as they were deep into dividing and owning what she wore, except the pocket which alone belonged to their Boss, Lhamo walked up to the next shop. There was no street lighting between the shops and she had to follow the path lighting with her mobile.
No sooner did she enter the dark region, between the two shops, there was a tacit click from their Boss and she was hacked to death. Not a word could she scream for help.
In jubilation and and celebration, they ran away to their hiding places carrying the huge pocket, mobile and her jeans. They celebrated the whole night over the pocket without opening it. It was unanimously decided to open it early next morning with the sun rise in order to bring good luck for them. They celebrated with the things stolen and robbed.
None of them could sleep as they were unthinkably excited. The Boss was busy making call to his girl about how she would fall in his arms come early morning. He held the pocket nearest to his heart and kissed time and again thanking how it had helped him get the girl by his choice.
Their enthusiasm to see how much money the pocket carried could not be hidden for a longer time. Early morning, even before the dawn had swept away the darkness in the valley, they once again unanimously decided to open the pocket. Their Boss made a grand declaration and asked every one to keep their eyes closed when he opened.
To their utter astonishment, when they opened their eyes, they found their Boss fallen unconscious. Contrary to their expectation, the pocket—instead of money—possessed a huge mirror, long comb, a bottle of hair oil, lipsticks, skin dryers, vaseline and other womanly things that helped build Lhamo's beauty. They were looking for money and the pocket had only Nu 30 that she brought for buying a piece of cloth, a napkin.
One of the angry yet loyal servants made a call to the police, using her mobile, to complain that women today carried nothing in their pockets and this has put their Boss at health risk. The police who had been looking for the murderer the whole night before, after the husband of the deceased alarmed them, were happy to be receiving call from the number and they readily offered to come at once bringing the ambulance. The servants happily gave their address once again complaining how police should make sure that when women carried pockets they carried money in it.
“Sure sir, women today are wisely foolish,” the policemen begged for inconvenience caused.
“Wisely foolish?” the dull headed servant could not comprehend. “Come fast or our Boss will die.”
In less than a minute's time—instead of a white ambulance—a blue pilot came for their rescue unveiling them a new horror in their hearts. The servant who called the police now understood that he had called a wrong rescuer. They tried to escape but were surrounded by the blue. One of them hid in the jeans and he was packed along. The other played with the lipsticks and pretended to be an innocent but he was arrested for his innocency.
When the Boss gained consciousness, he saw himself handcuffed. The woman was being cremated and the Boss and the servants begged the authority to let them pay their final tributes to her and ask for pardoning their wrong deeds.
Fearing that she may not like to look at those faces even in her death, her jeans was cut into pieces and fastened over their faces. They returned her pocket for which she lost her life and brought back the regrets for which they will lose their life. They wished they were just like her, on the fire, vanishing.
“You must check the pocket first the next time before we kill somebody,” the Boss mumbled.
“Sure Boss, we only have to do because you are handcuffed.”