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.”
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