My Dear Jane is a Game

Today—3rd March 2012, the day I write this—I will finally reveal my undisclosed secret: why I was never like my other friends who chased after girls. And you might wonder why today, not earlier and not later. The truth is, I am afraid I will soon leave these days, just like my dear Seltu—Mr. Dog.

Today, my dear Seltu kicked the bucket. He had been suffering from a strange illness for twenty days. He moaned and whined with tears in his eyes. I took him to a veterinarian, but to no avail. His condition never improved. I buried him near my maize field, said goodbye to my faithful friend, and returned home wiping away my tears.

But my pain did not end there.

Like my Mr. Dog, I have been moaning and whining for twenty years—not less, not more. Twenty years, not twenty days. I know the exact dates: 7th July 1987 to 7th July 2007. Wow, how the dates match. And this is the story of those years.

This is no tale-telling tale. It is a true, tearing story of pain, of weepy me, and of my strange, happenstance feelings. The story begins at the beginning and leads to the ending—as it should.


Pre-primary school was such fun. Unashamed girls dashed past each other. Kids without underwear rolled around for no reason. Children punched each other for no reason at all. But one lovely picture became encrusted in my mind.

Pictures, art, and photos were loved by children. That was how we were made to get attracted to books. I picked up my first picture book—a book that would stay with me for twenty years. I was attracted by the art on its cover. From that moment, she soon became a part of me.

Simply put, she was beautiful. She wore a little white cloche hat on her head. Her face was pure and white. Her dreamy eyes smiled. Her nose was perfectly molded. Her lips were sparklingly crimson. Every beautiful adjective in the world could describe her beautiful face.

I tried to recognize the big, bold letters: J…A…N…E A…U…S…T…E…N. Below that were smaller letters: E…M…M…A. What was that? I didn't know. But I knew her face.

I jealously hid that "J" book in the corner of the bookshelf so that my friends would not find it and touch that picture next time. Whenever I visited the library, I took that book and immersed myself in her. She stared at me. I stared at her. I laughed at her, and she laughed back at me.

My friends called me crazy. They called me a fool for laughing at myself. But I was not a fool. I was laughing with my girl.

I had truly fallen in love with her.

Many times, the librarian caught me standing near the door, hoping to enter. "Do you want to rob the library, Khotsa?"

"No, Lopen. I just want to see some books."

But the same response always came: "Your period is over. Go!"

I felt truly maddened when I had to run away from my beloved one, who was locked up inside that room. The closer I went to the room, the safer my feelings became. She was always there, preoccupied in my mind.


I saw a chance to possess the same kind of book. I told my father that I would never go to school unless I had a book from the store. I said the teachers would punish me for not bringing it. I fabricated this story just to get the book.

We traveled for three days from our village to a bookstore in Samdrupjongkhar. My father grumbled repeatedly after buying the book: "What's wrong? There is nothing in this 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. I felt happy.


I completed Standard VI, and nobody could believe my result. I was awarded first division. My friends thronged around me. "How did you stay the whole year with one book and still get first division? That Rogtola—the nickname given to the class position holder—is second?"

I was surprised too. But I believed in believing someone. And that someone, for me, was Jane—the 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 carried my Jane everywhere. By then, the cover had become abraded and smudged, but her face still shone through. I came to know that the book was the story of Emma, who suffered the threats of misconstrued romance. The content of the book had nothing to do with me. The cover was the treasure.

I never showed the book to anyone. If someone had seen me in that high standard class with such a low standard book, they would have gone crazy.

And that was exactly what happened one unfortunate day at home, after my Class X common exam.


My father ransacked my things and laughed at me. "This is what you learn in Class X? We bought this book when you started primary school, and you're still on this?"

My mother's interference made things worse. They talked to each other, and I caught some words.

"He seems to be masturbating while looking at this art girl," my father said intentionally, hoping I would change my behavior.

I felt hurt. I was saddened when they told me to leave the book and study my materials. My girl did not deserve this—to be called nonsense, to be linked to masturbation. I stood up, ran outside, and sat under a tree while my mother noised, "What happened?"

The wind blew heavy. Little by little, I realized that I had been obsessed by her hollow love. The leaves of the tree shaded me, almost covering me completely. I sat there for almost a day.

My mother came with the book. "Take this. This is all yours." She consoled me as if she had understood my feelings.

"No, I put this book in my bag by mistake," I lied.

My mother forgave me, even though I had done nothing wrong. But my father ridiculed me often after that, calling me "dead log," "ludicrous boy," "be careful," and scores of other names.


The next academic year started, and I had to leave my other half at home. Before I left, my father thoroughly frisked my bags. Finding the book on his own bed, he let me go.

It was like axing a tree. I bled inside. The whole year, I spent missing her and pissing away my days. I didn't want any other lover—I already had one. I did not want to betray my childhood love.

I kept her in my mind. Now, there was only one thing in my life: to know who she really was.

Life was whirling in a flood then—troubled studies and unspeakable 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 had led me into the game of love. I spent those mystified years with her, emotionally and mentally.



The same story followed me into my three-year B.Ed course in Samtse. However, I thought a little less of her there because I had to be busy with my tough materials. But my dear Jane often appeared in my dreams.

One day, without noticing, I told my friend that I loved Jane very much. That friend got quite surprised and irritated. "Don't remind me of that," he said. "I loved that art girl too."

I laughed at him but stopped abruptly, knowing the consequence. Such was the fate of loving a picture. My mind felt as if it had been hit with a big tong, plucking 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. Sometimes it healed. Technologies adjust life, and technologies also revive and destroy.

With the pride of modernization and the excitement of new things, I opened the internet. It was the blindest search I had ever made—just to see my art girl. Everyone would question me now. It crazed me too.

And believe me, it was exactly her. I could not mistake her, for I had loved her for so many years. And believe me, she still wore that same little white cloche cap on her head. The same pure, white face. The same dreamy eyes. The same sparkling lips.

Her picture on the screen lingered with me. I read her details—and sorry, I don't want to share those details. My wife would kill me! Her name was not Jane this time. She was something else, but I like to call her Jane.

My father would learn all the ways to operate the internet if I showed him the art girl again. As for that book and the art girl, my father later told me over the telephone that he had had a misunderstanding with my mother, and she had had to burn that book. But now I have the internet to see her every day. My father would wish for that too.


In fact, to see her and to think about her was to throw me like a stone flung far apart—ditched and separated. She was far away. So many mountains and seas separated us. I had fallen. My hands shivered to write something to her. 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 this: I have been waiting for you for twenty years, just like my Mr. Dog—moaning and whining.

And sorry to say, my dear Jane, this is how life is to be lived. I am married now. And what can I do? You will remain in my heart forever and ever and ever—until I kick the bucket, until my soul ceases to function. This I promise you.

But my wife is my life now.