His parents named him Yongba because his speeches lisped and saliva dripped from the sides of his mouth throughout. He shared his “Tengma” stocked in his pockets along with marbles, and other toys. He was fair in complexion, mouth turned pink from the friction of his shirt sleeves that subconsciously worked to clear his mess. He was strong and took care of bullies. He was good at what we played and competed. He did not cheat in the game and any sign of it from his competitor infuriated him. He was a good childhood companion.
Everyday we met soon after breakfast to fill with fun in the rest of the day. We played football, sneaked into a movie hall, fished, caught crabs, played in the river, laid in sand, and rocks naked under scorching sun while the clothes were left to dry etcetera. Yongba had adventurous plans to be executed every single day. I allied with all my resources.
Interesting aspect of our friendship is that I have no clue as to how we became friends. Our families were not friends. He did not go to school. I don’t remember having met his parents (only heard his mother’s voice while we played nearby his house). We lived kilometres apart but he was the dearest childhood friend I remembered when I lived with my parents.
I remember him very often than not. It was one summer in Phuntsholing I saw him last and that was the only one event that I can picture clearer than any other I had with Yongba. One morning, we met just like any other day. That day he had picnic in his mind. He had briefed me on how to get cooking oil from kitchen without the knowledge of my mother. He had planned the next day to spend by the river with good fishes to catch and feast. We pooled our cooking oils to fry possible fish and crabs from the river. He had salt and some chilli pepper wrapped in plastic and tucked inside his trouser pocket. I was pretty sure of menu for the lunch.
All the plans we had, he made it happen. He had a great skill for an eight or nine year old. He caught fishes as easy as in the fish market. He played with crabs, grabbed snakes by the head, and let it curl around his hand, talked with it like a child playing with a toy. I feared snake like a poison vessel that would bite and left you to die in seconds. He was a charmer, and for me he was the brave heart.
Careful with our supply we ran for the river from Kharbandi. I lived on the way to Phutsholing’s old hospital from the town and Yongba in Kharbandi. Every time we met at Kharbandi. Now when I think of the arrangement, it would have been closer if he had come down to my place and gone from there. That was not important then, (I think). As soon we were by the river, Yongba caught some fishes. Fire was started, before I realised he was working on the fishes, Chef was at work. I decided to play in the shallow part of the river, vigilantly avoiding deeper pool, where my friend glided like a fish when he swam. Many a times, he coaxed me to swim at the deeper side of the river but I refrained all the time. I feared water for no reason at all. May be I was washed away by the river in my previous life.
Not that I know of, but what I know is- as Yongba fried his prey, and wind carried the taste that floated all over the river, aroma made me hungry. No sooner I was called, I headed towards the bank distracted by hunger and scent of fries, I lost balance. Deep end of the river swallowed me, I fought not to gulp water, and I gulped it again and again. My body dashed on the rock, rolled over it, debris scratched my back, pebbles and stones rattled my head, water turned dark and I closed my eyes. My throat choked with the solution, I fought to cling on some thing to fight the current, and I caught hold of small, smooth-surfaced rock in the bed. I pushed myself on surface, just a second to grasp a breath, I was pulled again. River carried me as a part of its course. I wished for Yongba. My hands, legs and body were too tired, bruised and sore against the river that tussled downward determined to take along what was in its way.
I heard Yongba shouting out Ashok, ashok, ashok…
He reached to catch my hand, which was bone-wearied from the rock, roots, and river wall that would not let me hold. I was almost dead washed by a flash flood.
I don’t have any other memories with him there after because we did not meet under the supervision of our parents (I guess). Well as I write this, I think of my friend with gratitude, and wonder if he remembered me, and the time we spent as children. And the day he gave me courage, and hopes to survive against the tides of Monsoon River.
As I think more of that day, I have no clue of how I reached home and what happen to those fried fishes. Where are you, my friend? I wish to meet you and give it another shot for being my friend, and saving my life.
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