My Dear Jane is a Game

Today (3-3-12- I write this article), I will post my undisclosed secret of not being a kind of sticker with girls like other friends. And guess why this day, not earlier not after… I am afraid I wouldn’t leave to those days like my Mr. Dog. Today, my dear Seltu-Mr. Dog kicked his bucket. He has been suffering from strange illnesses for 20 days. He moaned and whined with tears in his eyes. I took him to a veterinarian but to no avail, his condition remained the same. I buried him near my maize field, said goodbye to my faithful friend, and returned home wiping some tears. My pains didn’t end there. Likened to my Mr. Dog, I have been moaning and whining for 20 years, not less, not more, 20 years and not 20 days. I know the exact day, 7-7-1987 to 7-7-2007. Wow, how dates match. And this is the story between these years.

This is no tale-telling tale. It’s a true, tearing story of pain and weepy me and my inane happenchance feelings. The story begins from the beginning and leads to the ending (uh, it should). 
Pre-primary school was such a fun. Many unashamed girls dashed each other, kids without underwears roll on without any reason, and kids would punch eachother without any reason. But one lovely picture was to encrusted in my mind. Pictures, arts, photos were loved by children and that’s how children were made to get attracted to books. I picked up my first picture book, which would remain for 20 years. I was attracted by its cover’s art and such was the thought of mine, she soon necame possessed to me. Simply, she was beautiful, with a little white cloche on her head. Her face was pure and white. Her dreamy eyes smiled, her nose was molded well, her lips were sparklingly crimson. All beautiful adjectives describe her beautiful face. I tried to recognize the letters of which were big and bold, J…A…N…E  A…U…S…T…E…N, and below there were some small letters E…M…M…A. what was that? Anyway, I knew her face, I enviously hid this ‘J’ book in the corner of the bookshelf so that others friends wouldn’t find and touch that picture next time. And whenever I visited the library I got that book and immersed myself with her. She stared at me, I stared at her, and I laughed at her and she did too. Friends called me crazy and fool to laugh at myself. I was not a fool, I was laughing with my girl. I had really fallen in love with her. And many a time, I got bereft from the librarian while I stood near the door hoping to enter inside. “Do you want to rob the library or what Khotsa?” “No Lopen, I just want to see some books.” And the same response would come, “But your period is over. Go?” I really seemed to be maddened when I came running and tearing from my beloved one, who was locked up inside the room. The closer I went to the room, the safer my feelings become. She was then, preoccupied in my mind.

 
I had a good chance to possess the book, the same kind of book. I told my father I would never go to school without having one book from the store, as teachers would punish me for not bringing the book. 
i fabricated this just to get the book.
Traveling for three days from my village, we went to a bookstore in Samdrupjongkha. My father grumbled repeatedly after buying the book, “What’s wrong? There is nothing in the book. Just a girl?” Surprised or not I was very happy. I kept the book just above my head watching over me. I felt safe and happy.

I completed my standard VI and nobody could believe my result, I was awarded the first division. My friends thronged around me, “How come you stayed the whole year with one book and got first? That Rogtola (nicknamed given to class position holder) is second?” I was surprised too. I believed in believing someone and that someone to me was that Jane, a girl I had fallen in love with. The more I believed in her, the more real she appeared to me, and the more I succeeded. I chilled my days. I carried my Jane everywhere and by then, the cover had abraded and smudged but her face shined through. I came to know that the book was the story of Emma, who suffered the threats of misconstrued romance (There was nothing to do with the content of the book but the cover was a treasure to me).
I never showed the book to anyone and if anyone saw in that high standard class with the low standard book, one would go crazed. And that was what happened one unfortunate day in the home after my tenth standard common exam. My father ransacked and laughed at me, “This is what you learn in class ten? We bought this book when you were starting your grade and uhhh…still on this.” My mother's interference made the matter worst. They talked to each other and I could get some words. “He seemed to be masturbating looking at this art girl.” My father intentionally said so that I changed my behavior. I felt hurt. I was saddened when they said to leave the book and study the materials. My girl didn’t deserve this, to be called nonsense- masturbating. I rose up, ran outside and sat under a tree while my mother noised, “What happen?” The wind blew heavy. Little then I realized that I had been obsessed by her hollow love. The leaves of the tree-shaded and it almost covers me for I had sat there for almost a day. My mother came with the book, “Take this, this is all yours.” My mother consoled me as if she had understood my feelings. “No, I put this book by mistake in my bag.” My mother forgave me though I had done nothing wrong. But there was my father who ridiculed me and calling often “dead log,” “ludicrous boy,” “be careful,” and scores of others.
 
The next academic started and I was to leave my other half at home. Before I came out from the home, my father thoroughly frisked my bags, and finding the book on his own bed, he let me go. It was axing of a tree. I bled and the whole year, missing and pissing went on. I didn’t have any lover as I had already one and I didn’t want to betray my childhood love. I kept in mind and there was one thing in my life now, to know who she is. Life was whirling in the flood then; troubled studies and unsayable emotional sicknesses.  I tried to find that book, but it was out of edition. She came to my mind and in my dreams as an angel. My dear Jane predisposed me to the game of love. I did spend those mystified years with her, emotionally and mentally.
 
The same story plunged me into my three years B.Ed (Bachelor of Education) course in Samtse. However, I thought a little less of her, as I had to be busy with my tough materials. But my dear Jane was often in my dream. One day I vividly remembered I told my friend unnoticing to myself that I love Jane very much. That friend got quite surprised and irritated about Jane and he said, “Don’t remind me of that, I loved that art of a girl.” I laughed at him but stopped it abruptly knowing the consequence. Such was the fate of loving a girl. My mind was as if hit with a big tong, plucked out my dream. Dream or real, I thought about her day and night.
 
The avenues of life changed more than our government changes its policies. It cicatrized at times. Technologies adjust life and the technologies revive and destroy too. The feeling of pride of modernization, the feeling of new things, I opened the internet and it was the blindest searched to see my art girl. Everyone would question me now. It crazed me too. And believe me, it was exactly her. I couldn’t misjudge it as I had been her for so many years. And believe me, she had worn that same little white cloche cap on her head. The same pure and white face, the same dreamy eyes, the same sparking lips. Her picture on the screen lingered with me. I read her details (and sorry I don’t want to share her details, my wife will kill me!). Her name was not Jane this time,  she was something--- but I like to call her Jane. My father would learn all the ways to operate the internet if I show the art girl again. And about that book and art girl, my father, later on, told me through his telephonic conversation that he really got some misunderstanding with my mother and she had to burn that book. But to me now I have the internet to see her every day. My father would wish that too.
 
In fact, to see her and to think about was to throw me like a stone fling far apart, ditched and separated. She was far; so many mountains and seas separated us. I had fallen, my hands shivered to write something to her. I, blinded with love words, expressionless and wordless I suffered. And Jane if somehow you read this true story about you, I would like to say that I have been waiting for you twenty years just like my Mr. Dog, moaning and whining. And sorry to say, my dear Jane, life like this to live…I am married and what to do my dear Jane you will remain in my heart forever and ever and ever till I kick the bucket and till my soul ceases to function. This I promise you. But my wife is my life now.