I have just graduated from my class twelve. Yesterday was my result day and, looking at my marks, I know I can get into CST. No doubt, I will. But today, my mind was elsewhere; I was called by my girlfriend to meet at the Sharja Lhakhang.
My home is not far from this monastery, but her house is a world away. I don't know how she managed to come here—maybe by using her parents' money, because both of her parents are incredibly rich. I climbed the hill and reached the peak where our monastery lay. As usual, the wind was blowing strongly, just as it did when I was a kid. The sun was scorching, and I hadn't prepared myself for a formal meeting because she had called me to come immediately. I arrived as a simple cowherder, wearing an old black gho, blue gumboots, and a flat bamboo hat, with my jola slung over my shoulder.
When I reached the Lhakhang door, she was already there, staring out at the view of Kangpar village. Indeed, Sharja Lhakhang is the best viewpoint in the region. She looked as calm as the first day I met her. I've always loved that calmness; it gives her a pure beauty I can never resist. She was dressed beautifully in a pangtshe kira, red tego, and blue wonju. As I stepped closer, the wind carried the scent of her hair—sweet caramel.
I hesitated to get too close. I hadn't taken a bath in a month since returning to the village, so I kept a respectful meter of distance. She didn't turn. I cleared my throat to get her attention, but she remained still. Looking back, I saw her black Land Cruiser—her father's third car out of eight. A female driver sat inside. There was no "interesting point" to find there, only the sound of prayer flags flapping in the wind.
"So, what's on your mind, Mendru?" I finally asked.
No response. In school, or even in our online chats, she never treated me with such silence. I stood there, stunned as a stone. I checked my phone: 12:30 P.M. I wasn't late; she had asked me to be here by 1:00. I bit my lip and looked where she was looking. The village seemed empty, silent.
"Your village looks so peaceful, Cheku," she said at last.
I smiled. "Looks peaceful, but the people in it are not."
She finally turned her eyes to me. Even now, those charming eyes made me want to leap like a happy kid, but I forced myself to match her calm. Then, I saw it—a sadness in her gaze. "What happened? Are you okay?" I asked softly.
She bit her lip, failing to answer. "I have something to say, Cheku," she whispered.
"Go on," I encouraged. She took a long, heavy breath. "Look at me, Cheku. Directly." I met her eyes, trying to give her strength.
"Cheku, let's break up."
The world stopped. We stood like statues. She turned away again, but I kept staring. Three years. She was the one who confessed first, and now she was ending the drama in a single breath. Deep down, I think I always knew this day would come. She is the daughter of a powerful family; I am just a poor boy from a village. I was never her match in power or wealth.
I wasn't angry; I felt I deserved this reality. I forced a fake smile, though I wanted to cry. To stay calm, I looked up at the blue sky, blinking rapidly to keep the tears back. "Oh really? I didn't expect this moment from you," I said, the words coming out automatically. She didn't respond. I thought of my friends who mourned for weeks after breakups, and others who celebrated leaving toxic partners. Now, the pain was mine to bear. "Maybe our fates end here, then," I said to her one last time.
My friends had whispered rumors online that her father had fixed her marriage to an army officer's son. I wanted to ask if it was true, but I didn't dare. She had come all the way from Mongar to Trashigang just to tell me this in person. Why not just send a text?
"Cheku, I have to go now," she said, her face still a mask of calm. I felt hopeless. I watched her walk to the car, praying she would turn back and tell me it was a joke. She didn't. The engine roared, she climbed into the front seat, and the car vanished.
I walked home, unable to feel my feet on the ground. My brain felt like it was exploding. "You lost a beauty because of your bad luck," a voice in my head hissed. It irritated me like a burning flame. "Aghhh!" I shouted into the empty air to make the thoughts stop.
By evening, the sun had dipped behind the hill. My parents had gone to the kangsey, the annual ritual. Usually, I would join them—it's our culture to visit other villagers' rituals uninvited—but I was too depressed. I scrolled through my phone and flipped through TV channels, but everything was a reminder of her. Tragic love stories were everywhere.
I went to the thab in the kitchen and found three 2L bottles of ara my mother had made. I poured a big mugful. Her face kept flashing in my mind. I gulped the alcohol down and banged the mug on the floor. It didn't make me feel better, so I had another. And another. My body grew hot and bitter, but I couldn't get drunk. The pleasure my friends described didn't come.
An hour later, the jar was half-empty. "Why am I not drunk yet?" I muttered. I stumbled to bed, shocked by my own sobriety. I closed my eyes, and then my phone rang. I swiped the button. "Hello?" I said, exhausted. Silence. I tried again. Nothing. I hung up.
A few seconds later, it rang again. Same number. Pissed off, I answered again, ready to bark at whoever was calling. "Hello, who is speaking?"
"Hello, is it Cheku?" a soothing woman's voice asked. She sounded exactly like Mendru.
"Yes, it's me."
"Acho, my sister Mendru's marriage will be next month," the voice said happily. It was Mendru's little sister.
I went cold. "So what?"
"You are not sad?" she challenged.
I thought for a moment. "When someone you love abandons you, how can I be happy? But what can I do? Your family is powerful; I am nothing. I respect her decision. I won't interrupt her."
Silence stretched between us. Then she spoke again. "Acho, I think Azhim does not hate you. After your break up?"
"I don't hate her," I said calmly. "If she thinks I do, tell her she's wrong. But I can't say I still love her either. That word is stuck in my throat."
I heard her whisper to someone nearby, "See? He doesn't hate no one."
Mendru was right there, listening. I felt a pang of guilt for my words, but I hung up and muted the phone. I rolled my arm over my eyes, trying to find sleep. That night, I dreamed she came back to me. But I knew the truth: it was just an illusion.
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