Saved by the River: A Memory of Yongba
Have you ever been carried away by the violent current of a river? I was—and there is one person to whom I owe my life, without whom I wouldn't be here to write these words today.
His parents named him Yongba. He accepted the name; I knew him by it, and above all, I cherished him as my dear friend.
He was given that name because he spoke with a lisp, saliva often pooling at the corners of his mouth. In his pockets, alongside marbles and random toys, he always kept a stash of roasted grain (
tengma) to share. Fair-skinned, the friction of his shirt sleeve constantly wiping his mouth left his lips perpetually flushed pink. He was remarkably strong and protected us from bullies. He was exceptionally good at every game we played, competed with fierce integrity, and hated any form of cheating. He was, in every sense, a wonderful childhood companion.
Every morning, right after breakfast, we would meet to map out the day ahead. We played football, sneaked into movie halls, fished for crabs, swam in the river, and lay naked on sun-baked rocks while our clothes dried in the scorching heat. Yongba had an endless supply of adventurous plans, and I was always his willing accomplice.
Looking back, our friendship was a curious thing. I have no idea how we became so close. Our families didn't know each other. Yongba didn't go to school, and I never actually met his parents (though I occasionally heard his mother's voice calling out near his house). We lived kilometers apart, yet he was the dearest childhood friend I knew during those years with my parents.
The Feast by the River
I think of him often, but one summer morning in Phuentsholing stands out clearer than all the rest.
We met just like any other day, but Yongba had a picnic on his mind. He carefully instructed me on how to sneak cooking oil out of my mother's kitchen without being caught. His plan was simple and brilliant: spend the entire next day by the riverbank, catch fresh fish, and fry them up for a feast. We pooled our stolen oil while Yongba produced a small packet of salt and dried chillies wrapped in plastic, tucked safely inside his trouser pocket. Lunch was officially planned.
Whatever Yongba envisioned, he made happen. For an eight- or nine-year-old, his outdoorsmanship was extraordinary. He caught fish as easily as if he were picking them off a market stall. He handled crabs effortlessly, caught snakes by the neck, and let them coil around his arms, talking to them like playthings. To me, snakes were terrifying vessels of poison that could kill in seconds. To Yongba, they were harmless. He was fearless—my childhood hero.
With our supplies secured, we dashed toward the river from Kharbandi. I lived along the road leading to Phuentsholing's old hospital, while Yongba lived up in Kharbandi. We always met at his end of town—though looking back, it probably would have made more sense for him to come down to mine. But logic mattered little to us then.
As soon as we reached the riverbed, Yongba set to work. Within minutes, he had caught several fish and built a small fire. While our little chef began preparing the catch, I went to play in the shallow waters, carefully avoiding the deep pools where Yongba glided like a fish. He often coaxed me to join him in the deeper water, but I always refused. I feared deep water for no clear reason—perhaps, I used to think, I had been washed away by a river in a past life.
The Current
As the fish fried over the open flame, the mouth-watering aroma drifted across the riverbank on the summer breeze. Hungry and tempted by the smell, I turned toward the bank when Yongba called out to me.
In my haste, I lost my footing.
The deep end swallowed me instantly. I fought fiercely not to swallow water, but gulped it again and again. My body smashed into rocks, rolling violently against the riverbed. Sharp debris scraped across my back, and pebbles rattled against my head. The world went dark, and I squeezed my eyes shut as water choked my throat.
Desperate for something to cling to, my fingers caught the smooth edge of a submerged rock. I pushed myself up to catch a single, precious gasp of air before the churning current yanked me under again. The river carried me like a piece of drift wood. In total panic, my heart cried out for Yongba. My arms and legs grew numb with exhaustion, bruised and battered against the relentless monsoon current that was determined to sweep away everything in its path.
Through the roar of the water, I heard a voice screaming:
"Ashok! Ashok! Ashok!"An Unspoken Farewell
I have few clear memories of what happened immediately after. We didn't meet much under adult supervision, and somehow, the trail of our friendship faded shortly after that day. To this day, I have no recollection of how I made it back home, or what happened to the fried fish sitting by the fire.
As I write these words, my heart overflows with deep gratitude. I wonder if Yongba ever thinks of me, or if he remembers the summer days we shared as boys—and the afternoon he gave me the strength and hope to survive the raging monsoon river.
Wherever you are today, my friend, I hope life has treated you well. I wish I could meet you once more, give you a bear hug, and thank you for saving my life.
