Childhood Crush

Everybody has memories to share from their childhood whether they are bitter or sweet. We sometimes do not want to reflect on those incidents they were traumatic or those that left us with bad memories. Similarly, some moments were to be cherished throughout our lifetime and one never gets tired of talking about them. In my case, when I go back to my childhood, especially school days, I cannot remember much of the incidents. However, there is one among few moments that I felt like blogging today. 

Having been to a government school where there was only one English language subject, my English knowledge was very limited. On top of this, I did not get any opportunities to grow up with television since I was born in a remote village where basic electricity and roads were not available (we had solar at home—still the television was farther than our imagination. Children born in this place after 2005 are fortunate. However, they still lack English language proficiency due to less exposure compared to city kids.) I was among one of them and my English was as poor as theirs. After leaving my school at 7th standard and pursuing my childhood’s stubborn, obstinacy and irresistible goal to become a Buddhist monk, I was raised in a monastery in southern part of India from 2003. The monastery played one of the most integral part in preserving ancient teachings of the Buddha and the culture of Buddhism as well as propagating the Buddhadharma. However here too, there was no special focus on English language despite having one English subject at junior school among other Tibetan subjects. Hence, it was never my cup of tea so far. Nevertheless, luckily, I got to meet some monk friends during my college days at monastic institute where my interest towards learning English grew and I got some chance to learn English as well as use them on various occasions.

Given this background, never before had I known the word “crush” till a few years back. For me, the word “crush” means to crush the plastic bottles after using them as was usually written on them. However, I somehow came to know that this word has another meaning too which is to secretly like or admire someone. In other words, it is a kind of infatuation, obsession, love and passion. It can also be explained in a way that to fall in love with someone no matter whether the other person knows it or not; imagining being with the person and spending quality time; and so on.

As my exposure and horizon of knowledge started broadening with time and change, I became aware of this word. (Similar story is there with the word “resolution” that people make at the start of the year, which I will share some other time). I have heard and read several stories people having crush on their opposite genders and sometimes, ahem, same gender as well. When I was asked, I was still not sure whether I had crush or not. But now, thinking about those innocent days at school, I think I too had crush on someone; not just one but, I think, two, or maybe three girls. First one’s name is Pasang, quite taller than me, and the second one is Wangmo, almost similar to my height, a sister of one of my childhood best friends from the class. Third is Lhamo, from the same village I am from. All of them were my classmates but we rarely spoke to each other; maybe we were shy, or I was afraid of them or there were some other inexplicable factors that barred us from talking. However, I would think that she, Pasang, also liked me. I would make my own assumption and create a scenario. When I wore some colourful cloth, which was considered to be fancy as well as to be worn by grooms, I would find her too wearing colourful coat and I would think that she is doing this to match with my dress code. And I would let my imagination get stretched and think her as my bride in that colourful dress. In my school, though we had dress code, it was not followed strictly and we would occasionally go with our casual uniform. My imagination is quite strange. I would directly start making different characters according to the images I have of any particular people or moment and let the imagination flow ad infinitum. I would sometimes forget what I was supposed to do, having lost or gone deep down to the world of my own creation. However, this did not last long, as it was just an infatuation and no feelings or emotions attached. In addition to this, it was just my own thought and I never knew whether she also wanted the same or not. However, when I went back to my home in 2007, after spending 5 years in monastery, I heard that she had inter-caste marriage—which is still considered as illegal or unlawful according to the conservative thoughts of our people and society. Other than that, I never heard anything about her nor did I try to find her information.

With Wangmo, the story was almost identical to Pasang’s. Her brother was our class topper and my bench mate as well as my so-called best friend. Wangmo was one-year senior to me when I was in 6th standard but she failed a year and I met her in the 7th. We hardly spoke to each other. Still, my imagination, (as it is told that the imagination does not have any boundary and it can go up to any level), went forward and created our lives as a married couple, having children, me ploughing the field and her bringing me snacks and drinks in between carrying our child on her back. Again in the evening, she would prepare dinner and heat a cup of bourbon for me to get rid of all tiredness and go to bed together. Then next morning, we both would get up, she would work in kitchen such as burning embers to light fire and prepare breakfast where I would go to cut some leaves for our cattle, bring the cattle out of the hut when the sun rises, clean their shed, use fresh leaves for them, release the hens to go for their morning food hunt and join her back at kitchen where she would have prepared hot khole, made of millet flour, believed to energise us to conduct work whole day. My imagination would flow in these ways, but they lasted only for few days, or maybe months. Since it was childhood stuff, there were no such strings attached that would make me think of her all the time. Had I not left the school at that time and had I been with them till 10th or 12th standard, I would have some more to write. 

Lhamo was one of my distant cousins. I was not sure whether I was allowed to have crush on her or not (according to our customs and rules). She grew up in Kathmandu with one of her uncles and later came to join her parents. Our houses were nearby and we studied at the same class. Once, I got second position in 4th class and she got third. My best friend, Wangmo’s brother, was the first as always. It was around May-June, where it used to rain and we had summer holiday from school. In daytime, we would go to graze our cattle and in the evening we would gather in groups and go to nearby meadows to cut grass and bring home for the calves and other goats which we couldn’t take grazing. We were king of our world; we would have our own goals and dreams and we would pull each other’s legs whenever chances arise. I too had some infatuation about her and had started liking her. But I was never courageous to express this feeling nor did I have strong feeling of love. However, this too was a childish stuff. She was beautiful though. It was one evening, we, around 10 of us, had gone to cut grass. She had helped me to fill my doko. After that, we all walked back to home and on our way, we had quite a long break talking to each other, making fun of each other and more importantly, one festival was coming near and we were planning on it. We got quite late and our respective parents started panicking. They called by our names from windows (in villages, one could hear from miles away). When we all reached our homes, we all had our dinner and went to sleep.

However, it was different story at Lhamo’s house that shocked everybody. When she reached home, her mom scolded her which made her upset and she walked away from the kitchen, went down to portico and hung herself to the death. Her mother thought she might have gone to sleep. When she called her for dinner, there was no response. Still, the mother was unaware of the incident. It was then when she went to washroom, she found Lhamo hanging on a sub-axis of the house and already breathed her last breath. She was horrified to see this and almost fainted. Then she called neighbours. My father and other men reached there immediately and untied the body and laid on the floor, covering it by a white cloth. Then they went to call police to report the incident for post-mortem (police station was, and still is, few miles away that takes around 2 hours by walking). It all happened in that one short night and when I woke up next morning, the village was quiet. My father was not at home. Upon asking my mother about father’s whereabouts, I came to know about the incident. It was unbelievable. It was completely shocking. Everybody in the village would admire her beauty. But it turned out to be a motionless corpse and later ashes, leaving everyone behind in tears and dismay. However, the death had already taken place and the post death rituals had already started. It took away all those memories and dreams she had, or we, as a group, had for the upcoming festival and other days followed by.

It is said that, when someone dies from hanging, their spirits keep roaming around and they compel others to hang themselves, adding more spirits to their group. Maybe, one of the spirits from nearby village might have reached Lhamo and taken her. 

NB: All names have been changed.